Seeping Wounds - The 80th Hunger Games
by ElementalEvolution
Summary: A few years after the failed rebellion, the Hunger Games still continues. Will the new batch of 24 tributes be able to face up to the cruel and perilous arena? Or will they still do their best to defy the Capitol even after the flames of the rebellion have long been doused? Will your tribute be able to outwit the others and survive? SYOT CLOSED!
1. Chapter 1

**Hello, and welcome to the 80****th**** Hunger Games, my wonderful avid readers!**

**It is ElementalEvolution here, and this is my first SYOT. I felt like doing one, and I have been told that I am good at writing in other people's views, so I thought I would test myself with 24 different views! So, here are just a couple of rules that apply to my SYOT:**

**You are allowed to submit 1 to 3 tributes. Bloodbath tributes are most welcome!**

**No Mary Sue's or Gary Stu's or they will die. Swiftly.**

**If you want to submit a tribute, you are to PM me. We don't need everyone knowing everything about the tributes now, do we?**

**Be detailed when making your tribute. A tribute with no detail = BLOODBATH. Similarly, you don't need to be writing an essay though.**

**And that is it. The Tribute form can be found on my profile!**

**Disclaimer: I do not own the Hunger Games or any of Suzanne Collins' ideas! I own nothing other than the arena and Luca Fawkes!**

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Black, highly polished shoes touch the white carpet. A suit of metallic blue shimmers in the electric lights. Eyes, burning like molten gold in a hot furnace. A square jaw, high cheekbones, tanned skin. Hair trimmed short, not a single hair out of line, glowing a literal gold. Sparkling white teeth, peeking out from beneath smiling lips.

Me. Luca Fawkes. The new Head Gamemaker. And I am _loving _it. That last idiot did a crap arena, and look where it got him. I mean, _come on_! Wheat fields for an arena? Boring. And he was a prat too. And the Gamemaker before him…Pluto Heaventree or something? And the dumbass before him too – the one who let that girl get away with the berry trick. They were all idiots. Lucky I was there to step up the game.

I wink at the hot secretary as she walks past in her black skirt and white blouse. She flushes red and drops her files on the floor, before scrambling to scoop them up. I don't bother looking back. I'll get her later.

I turn the corner and arrive at the Presidents office. The pristine white door competes with (and loses to) my pearly whites as they disappear behind my closing lips. The interview about the arena may have gone well, but the President needs seriousness, not overconfidence and cockiness. I knock three times on the door, and wait for a few seconds before I am let in.

I inspect the room with a small polite smile on my face, although I desperately want my full boyish smile to make its reappearance. The room is a deep scarlet accompanied by more white carpet. One of the rooms walls is a floor-to-ceiling window which overlooks the tall sparkling buildings of the Capitol in the warm afternoon sun. In front of said window, is a desk made from polished black obsidian, holding a few photo frames with smiling faces, and other meaningless personal items. The President; Coriolanus Snow, sits calmly behind his desk, staring at me with his cunning icy orbs, twisting a perfect white rose in between his crinkled fingertips.

"Luca," he says calmly. "Please, sit down,"

I obey him silently, my face relaxed and calm. Unlike many others, this man did not scare me. What could an old man do to a sexilicious guy like me? Bombard me with roses? Hit me with his nightcap?

"You called for me, President?" I say, smiling.

"Yes Luca, I did," replies the President. "First of all, congratulations on becoming the new Head Gamemaker,"

"Thanks," I answer, smirking slightly.

"Judging by your expression, you look happy to be in that position," says President Snow. "That means I have a motivated Head Gamemaker. Hopefully, you will do better to please me than Debra did last year,"

"Yes Mr. President," I reply. "I have a particularly deadly arena conjured up this year. It will easily boost the interest of the Capitol and keep the Districts cowering in fear,"

"Excellent," President Snow tells me. "Because if you fail, you will regret it,"

He reaches over to the hologram and switches it on. An image immediately pops up, taking on the shape of a laughing young boy, playing around with toy swords and chasing other boys through green grass and vibrant bluebells. The boy is around nine or ten, with dark golden hair and green eyes, both of which glint away under the setting sunlight.

Antiseptic fluid gathers through the eye ducts in my eyes, creating a blur that I have to blink away. My irises dilate in sorrow and I worry over the small boy. The deep colour of my eyes reflect my sudden feeling of homesickness.

Oh how I wish that I could see them once more. To breathe in the sweet scent of the white honeysuckle that grows on the walls of our home, to move into the stroking limbs of the suns rays as the heat and the breeze dances lazily over my face. I haven't gone back in nearly a year. I missed Christmas.

"Kile," I say, the name of my younger brother having been unspoken upon my lips for so long. Too long. There is an unexpected lump in my throat, but I cough it away.

"I expect it to be a good arena," warns President Snow.

"It will be," I confirm, still watching Kile play with his friends. After this is finished…I'll see if I can visit for a week or two.

"It will be the best of them all," I mutter, the water in my eyes reflecting a spectrum of light. A single and lonely tear falls, the light still shining through it as it tumbles through the air in an almost motionless fashion. The tear represents me. Lonely. The one who needs to go back home. I am the lost boy. And I want to be home again, in the hot stuffy kitchen that smells of freshly baked cupcakes, or the garden that smells of damp and fresh earth. Even the warmth of my mothers hug has long left my broad shoulders, forgotten and unlikely to return. I need Kile and my mother to be happy. I need to see them. These children need to provide the best show ever, or I am done. Kile…I promise I will make it back home to you. No, I won't promise. Because I know I will.

The tear lands on the carpet, where I suspect that many other tears have fallen, but right now, my tear is the most important. Kile and Mum are the most important. To me, they are everything.

_Mum, please keep Kile safe…_

It looks like I am going to need to add some finishing touches to my arena.

This year's Games is really going to have to be more vicious than the last. And I am one of the players. I'm afraid of this old man now. What will he do? He could just click his fingers, and my whole world would come crashing down.

I cannot afford to fail.

Or the President will destroy my soul.

"You are dismissed Luca," President Snow decides, obviously thinking that a threat on Kile's life was enough to make me become compliant. And it was. I leave the room, sliding my seductive smile back on my face. My good mood has been dampened by my meeting with the President. I'll show him. For Mum…and for Kile.

I strut into the Gamemakers room, the Gamemakers sitting there in their little white suits and playing with their holograms and fancy gadgets.

"Right!" I shout to them. "Let's get this arena done and this show on the road!"

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**That was just a little starter for you all XD**

**What do you think of Luca Fawkes? Bless little Kile…**

**Updates on the spaces left will be on my profile, so if you want to see if you can still submit, then check on there! I await your PM's my lovely writers and readers! Any reviewed tributes will be ignored and will not be submitted - an example of this is GinnyRueLover's review on this story, where I could not allow her tributes to be submitted because she didn't PM it to me. I really don't want the secrets and personalities of tributes to be seen by anyone so it adds that extra little piece of mystery to the story until everything is uncovered. **

**I will update soon XD**


	2. Chapter 2

**Hello, my excellent readers. It is time for the 80****th**** Hunger Games! Excited? I am. **

**Thank you to Guest: TheEvilLittleBitch (crazy name!) and BamItsTyler for submitting our two wonderful District One Tributes XD**

**I really hope I've caught your characters…**

**Now…Reaping Time!**

**Disclaimer: I do not own the Hunger Games, or anything to do with it.**

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**Hans Schmittling, District One Male POV**

I violently impale the dummy standing next to me with my sword. Clapping, my mentor Elana commends me on my efforts as both arms of the dummy flop onto the floor. I can barely hear her as I run over to the weapons rack, picking up several small knives in my large palms. I look into the reflection on the blades, and I see my determined face; black glittering eyes, and mousey brown hair. I smirk at myself. This year, I'm volunteering, at the age of eighteen. I'm in prime condition, and I'm ready to kill everyone who opposes me and come home as victor. That'll make Dad notice me.

I leap up and into a double somersault, flying through the air gracefully. I throw my knives at the same time as I spin through the air like a Catherine wheel, the light arching and bending off of the blades' shiny surfaces. The blades make small whizzing sounds as I send them flying into the dummy 20 metres away. As I land, Elana whoops and claps some more. I turn around to inspect the dummy, only to find that there is now a perfect line of knives embedded in it; from head to foot. I chuckle, smiling at my victory, but as I turn away, I realise that I have fallen short of my goal. One knife, one tiny _fucking _knife is lying on the floor underneath the dummy. Feeling red-hot tendrils of fire run through me, I stomp over to the dummy and pick up the knife, ripping off the head of the dummy and stabbing it several times before throwing it against the wall. It bounces off and hits this kid on the head. The kid looks around, confused as to where the head had come from, but he only shrugs and continues training.

"Perfect!" Elana says, smiling. "Ten years training and you're easily the strongest male this year. I hope you're volunteering?"

"Well, duh?" I snort, still a little fired up. "I'll just tear up all of those kids and be right back home as victor, like that Royce dude who won last year,"

"Brilliant!" she trills, and checks her watch for the time. "You've got about an hour,"

"Who cares?" I retort. "I'll be the first to volunteer before any of those slugs have a chance to take a step towards the stairs."

Ten minutes later, I find myself back at home. I jump quickly into the shower to rinse off the sweat and hardships of training, and I take my time as I style my hair to make me look hot for the ladies. They're always after me, but I don't need them yet. I will win the Hunger Games first, and then I can just pick and choose. All I have to do is to flex one of my biceps, and the girls go wild. A girl even fainted once. I dress myself in a red shirt that hugs my muscles, and black trousers complete with a set of designer black shoes. I'm ready to go. My Mom and my eleven year old sister, Cirrus, have already left for the reapings, and have left me a cheese sandwich in the kitchen. As for Dad, he's working. Again. He works as an assistant to the mayor and he never stops to even notice me. I've always wanted to volunteer for the Games, but if I make my father proud…maybe he'll notice me more, and be proud of me. I've told Mom and Cirrus about it, but I asked them to keep it a surprise for Dad. They understood. With a victor in the family, Dad might pay more attention to us all.

I walk briskly down to the reaping, gobbling up my cheese sandwich in a few wolfish bites, before signing in. I don't even feel the needle in my finger anymore – I'm so buzzed and ready for volunteering that I almost run into the eighteen year old section. I tower over most people as I stare at the stage. The reaping soon starts.

I'm ready for this. I wait for our escort, who appears to resemble some sort of traffic light with her red hair, orange dress and green tights. She babbles on about nonsense for about ten minutes before she decides to totter over to the girls reaping bowl and pick out a name.

A sudden call of "I VOLUNTEER!" can be heard from the 17 year old section as a girl walks up to the stage and mounts it. She tells everyone arrogantly that her name is Tiffany Splendour. Black curly hair, dark skin; not too bad with a spear if I remember correctly. That's about all there is to her. And she'll obviously be joining the career pack. Looks like I'll have to get used to her hanging around for a little while.

Hmph. I've seen her once before in the training centre with her friends. I rolled my eyes, because when you're going into the Hunger Games, you don't make friends. Friends always let you down, so the only thing you should trust is yourself. I trust myself to be the strongest of them all. I'm going to fight to be in charge of the career pack this year. I can feel it in my blood. I am a winner, and I am destined to win. I was born to win; no ifs and no buts. As the escort walks over the reaping ball, I shout "I VOLUNTEER" out so loud that several of the boys around me cover their ears. I stride up to the stage, punching several volunteers in the face as they try and swarm to the stage to steal my glory. Seriously! Those dick-heads didn't even say they volunteered.

After a great deal of kicking and punching, as well as the occasional throw of a person off of the stage, I face the crowd, taking in their staring faces. I do not look for Mom's or Cirrus' stares, because I know they will miss me, even when they know I'll win.

"Your name?" asks the escort.

"Hans Schmittling," I reply. "And I'm cutting down anyone who's in my way of victory,"

I turn and look at the girl – Tiffany - in the eye, as if to tell her that I'm in charge, and I swear I see her shiver. I smile a crooked grin as my hand closes around hers. There is no way that this bitch is winning.

**Tiffany Splendour, District One Female POV**

My eyes snap open, searching into my extravagant bedroom. I stretch and yawn widely, dragging my feet over to the mirror. My reflection stares back at me tiredly. Reaping day today. I grab a brush with a jewelled handle and rake it through my black locks, trying to organize my curls into some sort of formation. My mind quickly wanders off to today's reaping. I'm volunteering today. Dad is a victor, and he's always wanted what's best for me. He wants me to follow in his footsteps and win the Hunger Games. Mom seems to agree with him, but she's not so serious about it. She knows I'll be fine.

I decide to put off training today, instead making sure I have plenty of time to get ready. I shower, and take _way_ too long to find something that I feel like wearing. I eventually choose a ruby red pant suit with red flats. It'll look nice on me and I'll still look menacing if I need to be. After a final few brush strokes through my hair, I give up and get up to leave. My hair will have to be as it is for now. It curls around my head like an overgrown bush, complete with gnarled roots and twisting vines of black, hanging a considerable way down my neck. I heave an annoyed sigh at my disorganised curls, and I open the door. Without warning, I get an armful of Essence, my younger eleven year old sister.

"I don't want you to go," she mumbles into me. I hear a muffled sniff, and I pull her away, holding her small flawless hands in mine and she blinks back tears with difficulty. As I wipe the escaping tears from her face with my fingers, I can see that she is dressed in a light blue frock. She looks very similar to me, with her jet black hair and metallic brown eyes. Mom told me that I'm her role model. It's no wonder she's already missing me.

"I know," I reply, hugging her to me. I release her and take her hand.

"Let's go get some food," I suggest, and Essence follows me down the marble steps of our house to the kitchen, where Mom is frying some eggs and Dad is spreading butter onto his toast. Essence composes herself and sits down next to me at our glass and diamond table. The jewels glitter faintly as if they are serious about something.

"Morning Mom, Morning Dad," I say, and Essence repeats my notion.

"Morning Tiffany, Essence," Dad says, smiling over at us warmly. "It's your special day today Tiffany, so make sure to eat lots."

I nod simply and start to eat my eggs and toast when Mom brings them over.

"Feeling alright?" Mom asks me kindly, adjusting the blouse she's wearing. She's always wearing suits. She runs a department store just down the road from here. "I'm so proud of you for following in your fathers footsteps by volunteering,"

"I'm not ready for her to go yet," mumbles Essence almost sulkily.

Dad raises his eyebrows at Essence.

"Well that's tough luck," he says sternly, his black eyes lifting slightly with his disapproving frown. "Tiffany's trained for years to do this, and it's finally her chance to do it."

He turns back to me proudly.

"She'll have no problem winning, will you Tiffany?" he says, smiling again. My heart beats faster. Will I really be able to win this if I volunteer? But then I remember that this is not a question of worrying about winning, because I have to win. I can't imagine failing Dad, Mom or Essence – just the very thought of failure rocks me to my very core. I can't die. I have to live…for Essence.

"N-no," I say, stumbling over my speech a little.

"Sorry?" Dad says expectantly, sending me a piercing gaze that rips me to shreds. I can almost feel the scrape of the blade against my body as he waits impatiently for an answer.

"Lance-" Mom begins to say, seeing my hesitance. Dad however, silences her with a wave of his hand.

"No, Harmony," he states firmly. "Tiffany wants to volunteer, and she must be confident to make sure she's not underestimated by anyone in the Capitol,"

"I'm ready," I reassure my mother and nod to my Dad.

"That's my girl." He says. After a few moments, I hear a knock on the door.

"I'll get it!" I tell them, and I pad through the hallway to the door. I open the door, the stained glass reflecting rainbows on the floor, and I come face to face with Velvet.

"Hi!" says Velvet cheerfully. "You look amazing,"

I smile at my best friend's presence. Velvet had a habit of popping up at the worst times and bringing a smile to my face like that.

"Thanks Velvet," I say. "You're looking great too."

She does. Velvet is wearing a pink frock that matches her dyed hair that has been separated into two pigtails. She looks vibrant and happy to see me.

"Let's go," Velvet tells me, grabbing my arm and trying to drag me out of the door.

"I'll see you later!" I shout to the house.

"Don't forget to volunteer!" Dad yells back.

"I won't!" I reply, and I am yanked away by Velvet before I can say another word.

We both walk through the Victors Village, which takes us quite a while considering it size. We pass hundreds of identical looking quaint houses, with neat gardens and sweet smelling flowers.

"So you're volunteering?" asks Velvet. I nod in reply. We talk about the Hunger Games and how I was going to win, before Royce pops up next to us. Royce was last year's victor of the Hunger Games. He's now nineteen and he's two years older than us, with deep blue eyes and sleek blond hair. His eyes have small black bags under them, and he looks like he's lost a few hours of sleep.

"Hey," he says.

"Hi," Velvet replies.

"Uh…hi." I say.

Velvet gives me a knowing look, and I roll my eyes back her. Velvet is my best friend, so I tell her everything, including a little…incident…that happened between me and Royce. He used to be so happy and full of life before he volunteered for the games. Afterwards, his soul had been broken, and his face lost its colour over the trauma he'd been through. I comforted him to try and make him feel happier, but…one thing led to another, and I slept with him. I've only told Velvet about it, and she's promised to keep it a secret. Its not like Royce and I are together or anything, but what happened, happened and it's history.

"You're volunteering?" asks Royce suddenly, breaking me from my thoughts.

"Yeah," I reply slowly. I'm expecting an angry reaction from him, but instead his tone is apologetic as he speaks to me.

"If that's what you want," he says sadly, knowing that I would easily win an argument against him. "I'm your mentor this year, so I'll help you to win and give you advice,"

Again, I only nod in acknowledgement as we arrive in the town square sign in. Velvet and I walk over to the seventeen year old section, while Royce mounts the stage and sits in a chair reserved for the mentors. Within minutes, our escort, Rouge Flux walks up to the stage in her traffic light outfit. Frankly, it looks ridiculous to me.

As she struts over to the girls reaping ball, I shout

"I VOLUNTEER!"

I push my way through the other girls and walk up the steps after saying goodbye to Velvet, who smiles sadly and wishes me luck. As I tell Rouge my name, I link eyes with my father who wears a proud smile. My mother is next to him, her eyes shimmering with tears of happiness at her daughters dream. Essence however, is crying again. I feel guilty for leaving her behind, but I've been trained for so long to follow in Dad's footsteps, that this is what I need to do. This is my goal. As I stand before the whole of District One and shake the boy tributes' hand, I already find myself missing Essence.

_I will get back to you…_Is all I can think before I'm ushered off of the stage.

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**Well, now that is done. District Two, here I come!**

**So, what did you think of our District One tributes? Hans seemed to go out of his mind over one tiny thing! How do you think this will affect him in the arena? As for Tiffany, how do you think Essence feels? And Tiffany for leaving her? Bless little Essence…**

**Please tell me what you think by PM-ing me or putting it into a review. I really want to know what people are thinking, so both praise and criticism is accepted. This is my first SYOT, and I want to make it as good as possible for you guys! **

**~ E.E. **


	3. Chapter 3

**Here are the next reapings. Phew! School is really piling on the work! I have a Spanish exam so I'm quite nervous about talking about something that makes almost no sense to me. Nonetheless, I have churned out another chapter for you.**

**Radio Free Death: I see what you mean about Luca, but that is how I created him to be. I wanted the Gamemaker to be a little different. But, yeah maybe he could have been made to be better. Thanks for the review! **

**WendyHamlet: Yes, I'm reading the tribute forms countless times, and other than the bloodbath tributes given to me, I need to kill a couple off. It is painfully difficult, because everyone has submitted really interesting tributes and I don't want to kill any of them off! Haha, yes Hans *tuts*, and yeah poor little Essence…**

**thelastofdavid: Thanks for the review!**

**TheGlitchOnFire: Yes, Hans is looking like a big threat! He is definitely going to be a bloodthirsty one.**

**The Koala of Doom: Hans does get frustrated doesn't he? He really needs to calm down.**

**Hawkward Dolphin: Can't wait for the update did you say? Well, here it is!**

**212: Thanks! **

**Thank you to Titanic X and TheGlitchOnFire for submitting our District Two tributes XD**

**District Two, here we go!**

**Disclaimer: I don't own the Hunger Games in any way, shape or form. I only own my own creations and ideas, as well as my ridiculously long author's notes.**

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**Steven "Spray" Krane, District Two Male POV**

I close my book on the sketch of a grenade with a small _snap_, putting it back on the wooden shelf in my room. The sunlight streams through my window and warms a patch of my carpet as it does so. If I look closely, I can see the tiny dust particles floating through the air like feathers, twisting and spiralling playfully as they collide and tumble over one another. There are so many of them, suspended in the Suns paralysing warmth as they drift through the air as if they were in space. They have no purpose; they are only there to float around. That makes me think harder. What if there was a purpose to dust? What would it be? The only purpose it seems to have now is to coat everything in its own grey hue, darkening rooms and clouding countless forgotten and lost items.

I decide to let it rest for now. The reapings are today and I need to get ready for them. We're one of the career districts, so generally we submit mindless brutes to win the games for us. Unlike me, they don't seem to care about human life at all, just killing for fun and in cold, wet blood. That's what annoys me about the careers. They're just so _stupid_. They rely on their strength to do things instead of their minds. That's why so many of them have failed to win in the past. There were other, smarter, tributes that outfoxed them and cut them down to bring glory to their own districts. And they deserved it. Many of the districts are so poor that I've heard that people just keel over in the streets and die. It's a world of poverty out there. If I was to ever go into the Hunger Games, I would try and help other districts to win. They are the ones who need the oil and food to survive. We have enough here anyway, so why would we want more? Glory. Fame. That's why. Most of the people here are so obsessed with winning and getting showered with kisses and roses, that they don't realise how people in the other districts are faring.

I bring a hand to my messy black hair and decide to have a shower. Afterwards, despite my efforts, my hair remains the same. Shrugging, I look through my wardrobe to put on some clothes. I choose a t-shirt that is blue on the top and white on the bottom, with green stripes on its sleeves. I also choose some black shorts and brown combat boots to go with them.

"Steven!" my Mom calls up to me, "Come and get your lunch!"

I run down stairs, seeing that Dad must have already left in his Peacekeeper uniform. He must already be in the town square, herding people into the pens that separate us by age. Mom doesn't work at all, so she tends to stay at home a lot. She gives me a morning kiss on the cheek and turns away again.

"I'm just making you some food," she chimes lovingly to me. She hums a tune as she makes me lunch.

"Thanks Mom," I tell her, and I sit down at the table.

After I'm finished I leave the house and set off towards the reapings. As I walk, I can hear some sort of blaring sound from behind me, which sounds a lot like the elongated version of

"Sprrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrraaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaay!"

I turn see Zachary (better known as Zippy) Nelson, running towards me at god speed, his red hair almost being left behind him as he runs towards me. He looks as if he's trying to win a gold medal. The ten year old comes to a stop next to me, wearing a big smile upon his face, and not even breaking a sweat. Zippy is constantly hyper and he can be seen everywhere in the district, zooming around and shouting at the top of his voice. I feel sorry for Willma Nelson, Zippy's eighteen year old brother, who seems to have been left behind in a small dust cloud at the other end of the street.

"Hiya Spray!" Zippy cries, his little chest showing the only evidence that he's been running.

Yeah, Zippy came up with nicknames for all of us. Although they sounded a little dumb at first, they've just stuck ever since and we're all kind of used to them now. I'm known as "Spray" to Zippy. Willma also has a nickname – "Wingma", as well as our other friend, nineteen year old Bradley Harrison, who Zippy has nicknamed "Radar" for some unknown reason.

"Hi Zippy," I reply, smiling at the boys innocence and hyperactiveness.

"Spray! Spray! I have something to tell you," he says, visibly excited. "Did you hear the news?"

"What news, Zippy?" I ask him, confused. What has happened to get him so excited? If you think about it though, Zippy gets excited over almost anything, so this could easily be something completely insignificant. I was waiting for him to answer, but instead, he was poking something on my arm.

"What's that?" he asks, interested. "It looks so cool! How did you get it? Does it hurt when I poke it?"

I blink my brown eyes at him in question, but then I realise that he's talking about the tattoo I got a little while back. How could he have not noticed? He must have been running around too much to realise it was there…

"That's my tattoo," I explain to Zippy as he continues to poke it. The tattoo is of a single propeller plane; one of the ancient methods of transport that people used to use. How they survived without hovercrafts is a wonder to me. The top of the plane is blue with a white underbelly and green racing stripes on the edges of its wings.

"It's so cool," Zippy repeats again as Willma gets to us, followed closely by Bradley whom I had not noticed was there before. Both are panting a little.

"Caught up have ya?" Zippy teases them cheerfully. "I was about to tell Spray the news!"

"What news?" I say again, but Zippy is distracted by something and zooms off to the other side of the street yelling at the top of his voice.

Willma sighs and Bradley is serious.

"Hi guys," I say, not feeling awkward at the silence. I used to the quietness we share now.

"Hi Spray," Willma says.

"Hello," Bradley replies.

"Wingma, Radar, what is the news that Zippy keeps on going on about?" I ask.

"Bruticus is volunteering," Bradley says, his face solemn.

"He's been boasting about it all morning." adds Willma.

My thoughts swirl like a raging tornado. Bruticus is volunteering? I can't let that happen. He's a monster. He'll just kill and never stop; not even regarding the preciousness of life and the viciousness of how he will kill innocent children. They are far more deserving to go back to their families and live in happiness that he is.

No. I must make sure that another District wins this year, even if I have to sacrifice myself for it. My plan: instead of joining the careers, I'll work against them. I may not be as strong as they are, but I have had a little training and I am smarter. The words are out of my mouth before I can even stop them.

"I'm volunteering,"

"That is not a wise thing to do," Bradley says simply.

"Maybe you should think this over before you make a decision you don't want to make," says Willma hesitantly.

"Well, I'm doing it," I say, already determined and walking off towards the square, with Willma and Bradley trailing behind me. "I don't want Bruticus to kill people in ways that are so unjust."

Willma and Bradley try to calmly convince me to change my mind, but with no success. Something must be done about this, and I'm going to be the one to do it.

Zippy pops over for a short while as we wait in the line to sign in, eventually dragging Bradley away to watch.

"C'mon Radar!" he shouts happily. "Let's watch! This is fun!"

I chuckle internally at Zippy's unawareness as I sign in and walk to the seventeen year old section. Willma goes to the section behind me without a word, having given up on persuading me to change my mind. Our escort, a muscular man in a vest and trunks walks up to the stage, roaring to the crowd about the Hunger Games and how it is for only the honourable and strong. I swear he drenches the first row of twelve year olds with his spit as he spurs and animates the crowd. He barely takes a step in the direction of the girls reaping ball before a girl volunteers and pushes her way to the front. She announces that her name is Kleska Giori. As she says this, I start to run up to the stage.

"I VOLUNTEER!" I shout.

The escort sees me as he approaches the boys reaping ball and smiles. I hear Bruticus roar in anger behind me as I shoot up the steps of the stage. I had a head start on him, and he's quite slow too.

"YOUR NAME?" asks the escort, temporarily rendering me deaf. I cringe slightly.

"Steven Krane." I tell him clearly, wiping the spit off of my face. I look out over the crowd to see Bruticus furiously taking it out on a Peacekeeper and having to be held back; Zippy looking up at me in a confused way, while Bradley shakes his head; Willma nods at me once; my Mom is standing there shocked with an open mouth…

I know I'm probably hurting every single one of them, but this year, another district must win. Even if I have to die to save them. I will save them.

**Kleska Giori, District Two Female POV**

I shut the door, having come in from training, sweating but relaxed. Training always soothes my mind and it keeps me in shape – especially seen as I'm volunteering today.

"I'm back!" I shout, waiting for the giggling sounds of Al and Lydy as they come rushing up to me. Instead, only my Mom calls back with a barely audible greeting.

I walk down our hall, kicking off my shoes at the door. Our house isn't the nicest in District Two. Al, Lydy and I all have different fathers, and they all left Mom to feed and look after us on her own. Because of that, we were quite poor, and I had to sign up for tesserae for two years. Recently though, my Mom started working in a sword making factory in the poorer part of our district, so things have been a little easier for us recently with all the hard work she's been doing.

I walk into the kitchen, the wooden sides darkened from being wiped clean, and the floor vacant of any dust whatsoever. I see Mom preparing sandwiches on one side of the kitchen, but Al and Lydy are nowhere to be seen.

"Hi Kleska, how was training today?" Mom asks.

"It went well." I reply.

Mom really wants us to train as much as possible, because it makes her proud and we will bring glory to the family. I've already been told that I have been chosen to volunteer this year. Lydy, who is twelve, is pretty good too, although nowhere near as good as I am. She still has a few years of training ahead of her. Al is only eight, but he's already been confirmed as the volunteer when he turns fourteen. He's sweet, but still deadly with a knife.

"How long has it been now…ten years since you started training?" says Mom, her eyes glazing over in memory. "And look at you now, you're all grown up. I'm so proud of you,"

"Thanks Mom," I reply with a smile. "But I am only fifteen; I'm not really all grown up…"

My Mom raises her eyebrows and gives me a kind smile.

"Kleska, your age has never stopped you before," she tells me, cutting up some cheese as she does so. "Just because you're younger than most of the careers, it doesn't mean that they're better than you. I remember your first day of training. You were only five and you weren't fazed as you picked some knives and threw them. Ever since, you've gotten stronger and braver. You're my wonderful girl, and today the spotlight is on you. Now, can you go and get Al and Lydy from the garden for me? They need to eat their lunch and I want to get them ready,"

"Sure." I answer her, and I open the back door and walk out into our small garden. It's a lumpy plot of land, but nonetheless, there are a few trees in the garden which have been scored with the marks of countless throwing knives that once were embedded into their trunks. In the small clearing of space, Al and Lydy appear to be sparring. Lydy holds her knife in a firm grip as she leaps around Al, her waist long hair bouncing around as metallic _clinks_ can be heard as blades clash. Al seems to be defending his own quite well, blocking Lydy's attacks with growing tiredness. Finally, Lydy's extra four years of training give her justice as Al is disarmed by her.

"I won! I won! I won!" she cheers happily, jumping up and down.

"Well done Lydy!" I say. "That was great!"

Lydy hides herself in her hair, embarrassed a little at the unexpected compliment, but smiling too. Al laughs and runs up to me, not caring that he has lost. "Kleska!" he says happily. I give him a hug, and tell him "Mom wants you and Lydy to go inside to have some lunch,"

Al nods sweetly.

"OK!" he cries and grabs Lydy (who still hides under her hair) and drags her inside. I sigh and prepare myself. Not long until the reapings.

I slide three throwing knives out of my belt and I throw them swiftly - one following the other - into a nearby tree. I do this again with another three; this time all three are in the air before the first knife hits the tree. More knives shoot through the air like bullets, carving lines into the wood that spell out letters. I do all of this with deadly accuracy, and I step back to admire my beautiful work. Written across the tree trunk are the words "I'll miss you – Kleska"

The words are true, because I will miss them, but I'll be back soon with a better house for our family and lots of money. I rip out the knives and replace them in my belt, quickly walking back inside to have my lunch. After that, I bolt up the stairs to my room and I shower, washing off the tree sap on my hands and the sweat on my body. I dry my hair, and plait it before using a golden hairband to put the plait into a high ponytail. My green eyes watch my fingers carefully as I style my hair with upmost precision. I then proceed to get a dress out of the wardrobe; it is a red lace dress that is tight at the top and has a flowing skirt that falls to my knees. Around my waist, I put on a golden belt for added effect. I look at myself in the mirror, taking in my small frame. Like Mom said, I may be young and small, but I'm so much better than the rest of the careers. I'm definitely winning this year – No. Matter. What.

I race downstairs and tell Mom that I'll see her later, almost falling out of the front door in my haste to get to the town square. I'm planning on knocking on Margo's house. Margo Helshmet is my best friend, and I said that I was going to meet her for the reaping today. We've been through thick and thin together, and we've trained as partners for ages. She's nearly as good with knives as I am.

In less than five minutes, I'm knocking on her door. Margo answers it, and her face breaks out into a smile.

"Hey Kleska!" she says.

"Hi Margo," I reply. "Are you coming with me to the reapings?"

"Give me a couple of minutes." Margo answers me, and ducks behind the door to put on some shoes. Margo is wearing a lovely sunshine yellow dress with matching flats. Once she's ready, we walk off arm in arm towards the reapings, talking briefly about our dresses before turning to the topic of the Hunger Games.

"I'm so excited for the reapings," I tell her. "I'm going to bring glory to our district and my family,"

"I wish I was chosen to volunteer," Margo says enviously.

A small boy from the local orphanage hears this and scoffs.

"You're getting nowhere," he says spitefully. "You'll be dead in the first three minutes!"

"Why don't you go tell your Mom that?" I retort. "Oh yeah…you haven't got one!"

Margo laughs along with me as the small boy holds back sudden tears with difficulty. Looks like this kid can give but he can't take.

"Aww, is Mommy not there to comfort you?" Margo teases, and the boy starts to cry. He scurries off in the opposite direction, trying desperately to stop the flow of tears from streaming down his face. Margo and I laugh a little more before continuing onwards.

We soon arrive at the reapings, and we sign in, wiping away the drop of blood from the tiny slit on the tips of our fingers, onto pieces of paper with lots of boxes printed on them. I follow Margo to the fifteen year old section, just as our muscular escort announces that the girl is going to be reaped.

"I'll see you in a few minutes." I tell Margo and I walk up to the stage.

I make sure that my "I volunteer!" is loud enough for the escort to hear me, before I tell everyone my name. Suddenly I find myself shaking hands with the boy tribute. I take in his lean physique. Isn't he meant to be stronger and more muscular? Male tributes are supposed to be strong, but this guy looks like he's been starved for a week. I see Bruticus trying to break free of the hold of several Peacekeepers as he shouts obscenities to the boy tribute.

I assess his determined stare as he looks over the crowd. Who knows? Maybe this boy could be stronger than he looks, although, I'd easily beat him in a fight. In fact, I can already see myself taking him down. It's a shame that he'll be a part of the career alliance though. I guess it'll give me longer to savour the hunt…and the kill. And I'm already prepared to get started.

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**Ooh! That last part was a little sinister, I must admit. I found Steven was entertaining to write – especially Zippy XD  
****Kleska was a little harder because her character is harder to capture, but I hope I've done her justice!**

**What did you think of hyperactive Zippy and Steven? What did you think of Steven's tattoo? And how long do you think it will take before Al or Lydy find Kleska's message on the tree trunk? What do you think of Kleska herself? Sinister? Cocky?**

**I will get District Three up soon; it'll give me a small break from the career attitude. I'm thinking, maybe Thursday? **

**Phew, 4 down, 20 to go!**

**~ E.E.**

**P.S. Thank you for so many reviews! I didn't realise that people are so devoted to this story already! It shows me how much you want your tributes to win. Now, I'll have a harder job of deciding which ones to die, heheheh.**

**Keep 'em coming in!**


	4. Chapter 4

**I am back again everyone! Ah…District Three…a short break from the careers.**

**212: Haha, I love your enthusiasm. Thanks for the review!**

**WendyHamlet: Yeah, Kleska does come across as mean, but at the same time, if you look inside of her, you can see that she cares for her family, like the other tributes. Well, maybe except for Hans…he doesn't appear to care about anything at the moment.**

**TheGlitchOnFire: I'm glad you liked how I wrote her! Al and Lydy ARE quite sweet aren't they. You're suspicious of Steven are you, hm? Well, all will soon be revealed.**

**TheKoalaOfDoom: Yes, Steven and Hans are looking to clash aren't they?**

**OceaneBreeze13: Well, I wouldn't call myself an advanced writer, but thank you anyway! Thanks so much for the extra nitty-gritty advice! Hopefully this chapter will really crack down on the sentence structure and the replacement of commas with the full stop.**

**Here is the District Three Reapings that you have all been waiting for! Thank you very much to 212 and Onodera-kun for submitting the District Three tributes!**

**Disclaimer: I don't own the Hunger Games in any way, shape or form. I only own the arena I've made.**

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**Franz Wight, District Three Male POV**

I feel broken. This is my first reaping. As a short, skinny, and fairly harmless twelve year old, my name is in that bowl just once. So, why do I worry? One tiny slip of paper with my name on it, and suddenly it seems to be so significant to me now compared to how it was before. Maybe that was because I was foolish back then. Maybe it was because I never really understood the Hunger Games. Until Dad told me all about it.

I've been worrying all night about what could happen today, tossing and turning in my bed like a ship in a ferocious storm. The waves of my despair drench the boat, and the whipping winds allow me no concealment from the biting cold of the truth. I've cried so many times through the night, waking up from nightmares filled with mutts and tributes out for my blood. My screaming fails drive them away, and only the opening of my swollen eyelids allows me a few minutes of peace before my fatigue drags me back into a world hellish hallucinations. I've lots count the number of times that Mom has been in to comfort me.

I'm not ready for this. I don't know how to fight. I'm weak. Why must the Capitol be so unfair to children like me? Although I hate to consider myself as a child, that is what I am right? A helpless being who must kill others to live. If I get picked to go into that arena, then I wouldn't be surprised if I died straight away. There is no way that I could fight another tribute, let alone a career.

I sigh to myself as I shut my laptop. I'm quite a lonely person, because I'm a bit of a crybaby really. Even the slightest insult can set me off. I run away, but not to home. I'm forcing myself to be more confident, to be stronger and to stand up to those bullies. I can't just run to Mom all the time or I'll just get overly dependent on her. It is starting to work, but they're only calling me worse things now. I'm just going to have to build up some kind of a resistance against them. Then, all of the insults will be bounced back into their faces.

I take a bath, thoroughly washing every strand of my straw coloured hair as I do so. I decide to dress in a green shirt to match my emerald eyes and some dark blue jeans. I brush my hair into a sort of neat-ish style, and troop downstairs.

Dad is at the table, with his dark golden hair and blue eyes scanning some text on some paper. His eyes are glowing with worry and anticipation. Dad works as a chip designer. He tries to compress things into the smallest gadgets ever, so that it could all be carried at once with no trouble at all.

My Mom sits opposite my Dad, her blonde curls pulled over one shoulder and her blue eyes shining with fresh tears. I hide partially behind the doorframe, and peek in, eavesdropping on their conversation.

"He has his name in there once – what difference is it going to make?" Dad says, sounding exasperated. "There is a one in a million chance that he is going to get chosen!"

"One in a million chances happen all the time," Mom replies, worried. "He could easily get chosen. And look at him! He can't defend himself against those big kids! Franz will die in there!"

"Christina honey, Franz will be fine. He is not going to get reaped. And even if he does, he's clever and he can be pretty stealthy too. He'll survive long enough for people to realise that he is not a pushover." My Dad tries to calm Mom's nerves, but with little success.

"But what if he doesn't?" Mom says, her head in her hands. "What if he _dies_ in there Mike?"

I choose to walk into the kitchen at this point, not wanting to hear what Dad has to say.

"What do you think?" I ask them, showing them my shirt and jeans.

Mom's eyes overfill with tears and they start to make lines down her face.

"My b-baby b-boy." she sobs, and my eyes well up and start to leak too. Before I know it, both of us are crying in Dad's arms.

"We'll be alright," he says. "We'll be alright."

But I don't believe him, because I can hear it in his voice that he's scared for me too. He's scared at what could happen to me in there. Will I end up as a corpse with gaping knife holes in my chest? Or arrow barbs rooted in the muscles of my rotting body? Or do I even have the slim chance of escaping the arena to live my life with what I've seen?

I calm myself down long enough to eat my lunch and latch onto my Mom's hand as we walk to the reapings. I am signed in, and I start crying again because of the pain. I tell myself to get it together and try to be a brave boy, but I only breakdown further as older kids point and laugh at me. I make it to the front row of the twelve year old section I'm in and I wait for a little while. The escort turns out to be a man who doesn't appear to speak. He has dark chocolate-coloured skin and wears a suit with sunglasses.

He claps loudly to gain our attention before pointing wordlessly at a large white screen. A film starts which tells us the story of the first and second failed rebellions. I'm shaking so hard in fear that my knees hurt when they knock together. The film finishes, and the black man walks silently over to the girls reaping bowl before picking a slip and reading out the name. We finally hear his voice; a low somber tone with the rhythm of a chanting cantor. His voice echoes through the square, dooming ones life as he reads out a girl's name.

She walks slowly to the front, as pale as a ghost and looking as if she's just seen one too, her hands fidgeting as she stares nervously out into the crowd. Her name is Rachelle McKenzie. The escort strolls over to the boys reaping bowl and plunges his hand in deeply. He roots around for a minute and takes out the slip, stepping up to the microphone once more and he unfolds the slip of paper.

_Please, not me. Anyone but me. _I chant in my head.

The man opens the slip of paper.

I really hope it's not me.

But it is.

"Franz Wight."

And there I am, crying and standing still as the crowd parts for me to move. I don't move though, because I am in shock, standing there, scared stiff as the tears roll down my face. Eventually Peacekeepers have to drag me to the stage, and they dump me at the feet of the escort as I continue to cry. Dad appears to be deathly pale with the fact that I've just been reaped. Mom is being held back by Peacekeepers as she screams my name over and over, sobs racking her body as she wallows in the sorrow and loss she now feels as I sit on the stage. She knows I'm going to die. _I _know I'm going to die. Rachelle comes over to me and rubs my back to help me calm down.

The chance of me being reaped was miniscule – like a one in a million chance. But like Mom said, one in a million chances happen all the time.

**Rachelle McKenzie, District Three Female POV**

I finish off drawing the meadow on the paper, and I reach over to grab a sharpener. I walk over to the window, calmly open it, and let the shavings fall onto the heads of the people in the street. We're not really rich enough to have bins in our rooms, and I can't be bothered to walk all the way down stairs just to sharpen my pencil.

A middle aged man noticed this, and brushed the shavings out of his hair.

"What the hell are you doing kid? Stop that!" he yells.

"Deal with it old man!" I shout back, laughing manically as he stomps off in fury.

I finish sharpening, and I retrace the lines of my drawing; the curves of the petals on the spring flowers, the spiky blades of the green growing grass, and even the long dangling branches of the willow tree in the centre of the picture. I love to draw. I can imagine worlds where I can be safe, and where nobody will judge me for who I am. A lesbian. It's not frowned upon in Panem to be lesbian, gay or bisexual, but there are always the small minority that like to laugh at you and call you names. Luckily, my family were really accepting. Dad left Mom when my younger sister, Kailie was born. Shortly after that, my Mom contracted AIDS and died. No wonder people laugh at me and call my Mom a whore. In reply, I give them the middle finger, or go into ultimate sass mode. I gotta say that I'm probably the sassiest girl in town, and hell do I use it. If someone insults me, then they get sassed out so badly that they can't even think of something to reply with. I colour in the petals of the meadow flowers in a vibrant pink, while I consider what I'll be wearing today. I have the looks of a typical person from District Five, even though I from District Three; ginger curled hair and bright green eyes. I hear that they're called foxes now-a-days. To be fair though, last years boy tribute looked exactly like one, and I remember a girl tribute when I was younger that people dubbed "Foxface", so I guess that figures.

I put my drawing to one side, and I scramble over to my pile of clothes. I decide on a grey pleated skirt with a blue blouse and black kitten heeled shoes. That will be good enough to look nice at the reapings. I walk down the stairs to meet the rest of my family for the hellish day ahead of us. Either Kailie, who's twelve, or myself, who's fifteen could get reaped. It doesn't help that I've taken tesserae for Kailie, Jamie, Jamie's daughter, Jamie's wife and myself. Jamie if you were wondering, is my nineteen year old brother who has foolishly married at such a young age and has had a child. He's the only income source of the family, seen as _she_ doesn't do anything except for look after the baby. I grab my lunch and walked out of the door before I could even say "Good Morning."

I don't want another family skirmish on my hands. It's rather tense in the house at the moment, and I don't want to participate in another screaming match.

I decide to meet Maisy Maid, my next door neighbour and best friend. She's one of my classmates at school and you can't separate us. She's perfectly fine with my homosexuality, and I've already told her that I consider her as a sister, not a lover, so we're practically the strongest two friends that you could ever meet. I almost drag her from her house in her white dress and matching heels.

"Another argument?" she asks me.

"No," I say. "But I could have easily sassed them and shut that bitch right up if I wanted to."

Maisy laughs.

"Yeah, you could totally sass them out," she tells me. "You're the sassiest diva around."

"I can't help but be worried about Kailie though," I admit, wondering how my younger sister must be feeling. I shouldn't have left her like that, but I guess it's too late now. I'll see her at the reapings.

Maisy looks apologetically at me as she rubs my shoulder.

"I'm sure she'll be fine, she's only got a few in the reaping bowl."

"Hmm…" I say.

"You should be more worried about yourself," Maisy tells me. "How many times is your name in there?"

"About twenty I think," I reply. "Something around that. I've lost count,"

I shrug nonchalantly. "They wouldn't dare to pick me anyway. Oh. Hell. No."

I add a head bobble and a triple click of my fingers to emphasise my point. Maisy laughs again, and I smile. I love to make people smile and laugh. It makes me feel like I'm doing something right for once.

We continue to giggle together as we walk to the reapings. We wait in line to sign in, but when we do, my finger gets pricked unnaturally hard.

"Hey! Watch it!" I snap at the female Peacekeeper. "Don't prick me so hard!"

The Peacekeeper remained silent, and I walked to the fifteen year old section, cursing under my breath. _Stupid woman_…

I wait patiently as the usual film is shown to us and the unnaturally quiet escort takes the name out of the girls reaping ball. I actually start feeling really nervous, as if there is something I am missing. I've done this before and I've never been reaped, so I'll be OK, right? Sheesh, I need to calm down.

"Rachelle McKenzie."

As my name is called, I feel the colour drain from my face. What? Why me? I'm useless to use as your stupid pawn in your games. I can't even use a weapon and now you want me just to walk in and die? Well, that's not happening, and they're going to have to deal with it. My mind works quickly. There's no escape from the Peacekeepers, so it looks like the Hunger Games is going to have to be a very lethal game of hide and seek.

Maisy's eyes are filled with tears as she stands next to me.

"No…" she says.

"Don't you dare volunteer," I tell her. "It'll be OK, alright? I'll see you in a bit,"

I clasp Maisy's hand and give her a small smile. "Stray strong for me." I say, but my voice wobbles a little. I walk down to the stage and up the steps. The escort looks at me, but says nothing. Maybe he doesn't like speaking. Or maybe he's just afraid of my sass.

The boy tribute is crying as he is dragged up, and I can tell that this guy is easily a bloodbath tribute, but I decide to try and calm him down anyway. I stare at the cameras in determination. I strike my sassy pose to show that I am prepared. I'm going to sass my way through the Hunger Games and come out on top.

Hey Mom, if you're up there watching me, I'll win for you OK? At least Kailie is safe this year. I still miss you after all this time, but I've been strong for you. And that is exactly what I'm going to keep on doing.

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**So, there we have it. My Grandad has come back from Malta to visit the family, and he's given me a laptop with internet! This means (hopefully) faster or more efficiently placed updates. I've decided to update at least once every week, and I will tell you if I won't be able to meet that. I have recently however, been posting on the pattern of every 3/4 days. I must be so excited that I keep on telling myself to complete chapters and put them on here. **

**So, Franz! He's quite sweet really, a bit of a Mommy's boy if you ask me. How far do you think he's going to go in the arena? And the sassy Rachelle? Do you think she'll be able to pull off her attitude and use it to win? Or will she fall at the first hurdle?**

**Feel free to give me criticism or praise; I appreciate all opinions! I don't know about you, but I'm really enjoying this story and I'm motivated to write at the moment! **

**~ E.E.**


	5. Chapter 5

**I'm back! Hope you all had a fabulous Valentines Day! As usual, I remain painfully single…Nah, who cares? My single friends and I decided to have a party, and we had lots of fun, so it was great! I hope all of you lovers out there had a great day, and all of you singles ate junk food and didn't feel guilty about it XD **

**My Spanish Oral exam went very well, so that is excellent news. **

**There are so many of you that I'll never get onto the story if I do shoutouts, so thank you to: GryffindorGirlOnFire, WendyHamlet, Danny Barefoot, EllipticDART, BamItsTyler, thederangedramblingsofme, HawkwardDolphin and anyone else who reviewed!**

**Sorry this has taken me so long, but still, here it is XD **

**Right, so District Four has some very interesting tributes. Thanks to 212 and WendyHamlet for submitting them! May I also add, please check out WendyHamlet's story "Underestimated". It is well written and exciting, and it follows Mags in her Hunger Games, and what she went through. Quality Writing! XD**

**Disclaimer: I do not own the Hunger Games in any way, shape or form. I only own the arena.**

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**Taser Shock, District Four Male POV**

I sit there with her in the boat as we float lazily in circles upon the gentle waves. Her smile, her oh-so-perfect smile makes my heart burn with longing. Her long honey blonde hair shimmers in the sunlight, shining like gold. I would pay millions for a strand of her shining locks. Those cerulean blue eyes hold magic within them that draws me to her. Even the sparkling waves around us cannot compete with the beauty of Mariel Tide, the girl I love. She is an angel, a being so radiant, that she is more blinding than the sun that beats down upon us. If only she was mine, if only she felt the same way.

But there lies the problem. I don't know if she likes me back, and…I'm a little scared to ask. Alright, stop laughing already. I'm a strong, confident guy who could kill anyone within seconds. I've been trained to go into the Hunger Games all of my life. Those are my two greatest hobbies: Mariel, and training. Killing will probably add to the list when I get into the arena. There is the second thing. Killing. For as long as I can remember, I have had problems keeping my sadistic side under control. It's like the devil is inside of me, controlling who I am, making me thirsty for bloodshed. And that happens whenever I find myself with a weapon in my hands. That is why I'm worried about Mariel. What if we were together and I lost control? What if I killed her? I would never forgive myself. What makes it worse is that Mariel knows that I have problems controlling my lust for blood. She finds it repulsive, but other than that, we're best friends. And isn't she a knockout. How I would love to kiss those plump red lips, and stroke her sun-kissed skin and-

Stop! I don't need those fantasies now otherwise Mariel will be wondering what in Panem I'm thinking about. Mariel looks at me through her long eyelashes, making my heart beat uncontrollably. She takes my breath away, literally. I often have to remind myself to breathe. We have been out for a row in my boat, out on the ocean waves, and I've told her that I am volunteering for this year's Games. She was sad, but I told her that it wasn't my fault. The training academy has told me that I have to volunteer, or face the shame. Mariel doesn't understand. I have to do this as an honour to both my District and my Mom. We don't talk about Mom though. She was lost in a storm and we haven't seen her for a few years, so Dad says she's dead. I got over it though, hiding my emotions like careers must do. I don't need people thinking I'm weak.

To be honest, my only real weak spot now is Mariel. If she was reaped, I don't know what I'd do. How could I protect her at the same time as killing everyone off, so that she could go home? The careers would surely have her.

I guess that being in District Four has benefits though, because she'd be taken straight into the career group with me, so she'll be fine, right?

We are silent as we row around a headland to the shore. I'm not a big talker, partly because I'm so transfixed by how beautiful she is. We still make small talk though, and only through that can I find my tongue. Mariel does most of the talking though. She talks about her father and siblings, and you can just _feel _the love for her family rolling off of her. It makes you want to love them too. It makes you feel safe.

As we approach the docks, I take one last look at our reflection in the water. Only in this reflection are we a couple. Only there are we together, holding hands in love and harmony. If only that could happen…

We get out of the boat and I tie the boat to the dock. We walk up the road fairly quietly. Mariel has been quiet since I told her about my new role in the Hunger Games, but as we part ways, she gives me a hug. I can smell the sweet scent of her hair as she embraces me, standing up on her tiptoes. I want to tell her right then, but I know I can't. Not yet. When I win I will come back to her.

"I'm going to miss you," she says.

"I know," I tell her. "But I'll be right back before you know it."

We break the embrace.

"I'll see you there." Mariel says, leaving her hand on my arm.

I nod in reply before we part ways. I sigh, and walk into our house. It's medium sized and on a cliff. From the windows, you can look out over the open water as the sun turns the sea into an expanse of glowing spots that look like diamonds. The view is breathtaking.

I walk in through the front door, rushing up to my room. Dad's not in because he'll be out fishing, but hopefully he'll make it back in time for the reaping. He's fine with me volunteering, and he has been encouraging me to train hard ever since he found out.

I run up to my sea green bedroom, deciding to wear a green dress shirt and black trousers with polished shoes. I check my black hair and green eyes in the mirror; our family wasn't originally from here, explaining my looks. We actually use to reside in District Nine before Mom wanted to move nearer to the sea. I came to District Four when I was six. Mom was lost to the sea a couple of years after that. I'm fine with how I look, so I walk out of the house and down the road to the square. I won't bother with lunch today, there'll be food on the train. Most of the people are there already, but I wait for Mariel to arrive. She looks so stunning in her black skirt and white blouse, that I have to remember to shut my mouth before she sees me gaping at her. I open my arms to her as she runs to me, embracing her as she sighs into my chest.

"You'll be alright," I assure her, as I feel her body shaking slightly in nervousness. For both of us, it is our last year. I am going to volunteer, and she is going to watch, praying for my return with every minute. And I am going to do it for her.

"Yeah," she says, still looking worried. "I'll be fine."

I give her a smile, letting her return her dazzling one back to me. We sign in and separate, going to our own respective areas.

The escort walks up to the stage, swaying her hips and wearing nothing but a two-piece swimming costume and flip-flops. Most of the eighteen year olds around me wolf whistle, but I only have eyes for Mariel. She meets my gaze and holds it as the film plays. We've seen it enough times anyway. I nod, and she smiles faintly. The escort walks up to the reaping bowl and plucks out a slip, walking over to the microphone.

"Mariel Tide."

My blood runs cold as I stare at Mariel as she ascends the stage, looking over to me before locking eyes with her family. There is no way she is going alone into the arena.

"I VOLUNTEER!" I shout, jogging up to the smiling escort. I only stare at Mariel as I mutter my name. If only she was safe and well, but I knew now that I had to protect her. No matter what it was going to take, Mariel was coming home.

**Mariel Tide, District Four Female POV**

I walk back to my house with mixed emotions. Today is the day that Taser is leaving me to go into the Hunger Games. He told me he was going to volunteer, and at his words my heart shattered. He is so confident that he is going to win, but can he? He is strong, smart, hot…I mentally scold myself. How can I fall in love with a boy who is so sadistic? He has the biggest heart, but half of it is filled with darkness and the desire to kill. I shouldn't feel like this towards him, but his smile, his hugs, his eyes, oh don't get me started on his eyes. The sea green depths of those shining orbs make my heart flutter as they stare at me. His rich voice sends shivers of delight down my spine. He doesn't talk much, but he is my best and only friend, and one of the few people I can trust. That is why worry I about him. He's trained for the Games for a long time, but can he still pull it off? Can he still escape from the arena with his life? And worse still, if he wins will I lose him to the horrors he has witnessed? I don't want to lose him.

Taser took me out for a row in the ocean today, where he told me about what he was going to do. I wasn't happy but I didn't want him to face the shame of failure, so I'm going to let him go. But that's not going to stop me from wishing for his safe return.

I arrive home and hear the chattering of my brothers and sister. They rush down the stairs crying out my name, excited to see me. Aaron and Brody come first, my ten year old twin brothers, and six year old Anabelle fails to keep up as she skips down the stairs. They all attack me with a big hug and we all end up on the floor, giggling.

"Mariel! Mariel!" Anabelle chants.

I laugh.

"Hello," I smile, helping Anabelle up. "Where's Dad?"

"He's on the ship at the moment." says Aaron. I have known the twins long enough to tell them apart by now. I was surprised that I didn't meet Dad down at the docks, so I guess I must have missed him.

"OK," I reply. "Shall we get ready then?"

Anabelle nods, wearing a wide smile upon her face. As the boys rush up the stairs to get ready, I walk with Anabelle to her room to pick out a dress. As she ponders over which dress to choose, I walk over to the window of her room, breathing in the soothing scent of the sea that is coming in through the window. I look down at the window sill to see Anabelle's pictures lined up neatly. One of them contains my Mom, smiling with Dad and hugging him. The photo brings tears to my eyes. I took this a year before Anabelle was born. It had been a sunny day and I had snapped a picture of them when they hadn't noticed. Afterwards, they both agreed that it looked good and they got it processed for me. I used to have it in my room before Anabelle was born. I gave it to her so that she could see what Mom looked like. She had died giving birth to Anabelle, so she had never seen her before. I hold the photo to my heart as a tear slips out. I wipe it away quickly and I blink back the tears. I must stay strong for Anabelle, Aaron and Brody. I am the mother of the family now.

"I like this one." Anabelle declares, holding out an ocean blue dress in front of her. I help her put it on, and I do her hair for her, putting a small blue bow in it. I stand back to look at her.

"You look beautiful," I tell her.

"You're prettier." she replies, and she runs off to bother Aaron and Brody.

I walk to my room and have a shower, washing away the feelings of sadness at the loss of Mom. I'll admit that I'm a bit nervous for the reapings, but it comforts me to know that this is my last year, and that next year I won't have to worry about any of us getting reaped. I choose a white blouse and a black skirt to wear for this year, and I check on Aaron, Brody and Anabelle who are shouting and laughing in the boys' room. I walk down the stairs and make some sandwiches for them.

"Lunch is ready!" I call to them, and the thundering footsteps I hear tells me that my shout has been heard. Aaron and Brody speed down the steps, wearing smart white shirts and black trousers. Anabelle flies down the stairs shortly afterwards, and they all munch on their sandwiches. Dad then walks in, smelling of salt and fish.

"Daddy!" Anabelle shouts, and she hops off of her chair to hug him.

"Hello Princess." he replies, and embraces her, along with Aaron and Brody who have finished their sandwiches in a matter or minutes. I pick up the plates and plonk them into the sink as Dad comes over to me.

"Hi Dad," I say, and I hug him around the middle. "How was the ship today?"

Dad worked as a ship captain, and he often left the twins and Anabelle for me to look after.

"Not bad," he answers. "But shouldn't you be at the reapings by now?"

I nod.

"I'm about to leave," I say.

"Good luck my girl," he says, kissing my forehead. "We'll be there as soon as I've changed out of these clothes,"  
"OK," I answer. "Bye!"

I wave and kiss Anabelle, Aaron and Brody, the latter two wiping the kiss off of their faces in mock disgust. I laugh as I leave the house, running to the reapings. I don't want to be late.

There he is waiting for me, his black hair and green eyes smiling at me as I run into his arms. My heart is thudding, partly because of the running and my nervousness, but also because of our close proximity. I don't know how I'm going to deal with his absence for so long. I'm going to miss him so much. I know that I'm going to be worrying about him continuously over the coming days.

"You'll be alright," he tells me, and I relax into his chest. _I'll be OK_ I reassure myself. Taser will go into the Games and then he'll win and everyone will be happy.

"Yeah," I reply. "I'll be fine."

We sign in and go our separate ways. I see my family standing at the side of my section, watching the reapings. I turn to meet the staring eyes of Taser, and he nods. I flash him a nervous smile as the escort steps up to the stage and declares that the girl is about to be reaped.

She reaches in and grabs a slip of paper.

"Mariel Tide."

Shock rains down on me as I walk up to the stage, taking in the surprised look on Taser's face. I look over to my family, where Dad's face resembles one of pure horror. Aaron and Brody are crying silently. Only Anabelle remains serious, her brow slightly furrowed as she tries to understand what is going on. I feel so protective of her. What if I died in these Games? Then who would look after my family? How would they do without me? Aaron, Brody and Anabelle will be left alone when Dad goes to work, and they are dependent on me to do things for them. I feel a surge of protectiveness for my family. I needed to win to save them. They needed me more than anything in the world. I was practically a mother to Anabelle, and a role model for the twins.

I don't want Taser to volunteer, but he does anyway, staring at me in shock as he mutters his name to the skimpily dressed escort. I look into his eyes and see determination and devotion in there. Does he love me?

His eyes are begging for this not to be real, pleading for me to be spared, but I won't be. I know that he's going to do whatever he can to protect me in the arena, but will he be able to? Surely he will lose control when he has those weapons in his hands? As I look into his wonderful green eyes, I can't help but wonder if Taser will be the one to kill me; if he will be the one to spill my blood. I shake hands with Taser, diverting my gaze from the man who might just be the one to kill me in the future.

* * *

**Ta-Dah! Finished those reapings, so now it is on to District 5.**

**So, what do you think of the relationship between Taser and Mariel? Do you think that it could bloom into something more? Do you reckon that Taser may have trouble with his love for murder? And will Mariel die by his hand? Well, you'll have to wait and see!  
I hope that I portrayed the characters well, and that you're enjoying the story! I'm deciding on doing all of the reapings, but then switching views during train journeys, chariot rides, training days and interviews. **

**I'll update soon!**

**~ E.E. **


	6. Chapter 6

**I am back again with another update. We are away from the careers for now, and we have arrived at District Five. Again, some interesting tributes (This is becoming my catchphrase now XD), but will they survive the trials ahead of them?**

**WendyHamlet: I'm happy that you liked my portrayal of Mariel. You are now my most loyal reviewer, so thank you very much! **

**thelastofdavid: Thank you! A power couple indeed…**

**212: I'm glad you liked how I wrote him.**

**Thank you very much to Kaitaru Stark-Laufeyson and Typically for submitting the District Five tributes. Also, if anyone is interested in joining a 24 Author Collaboration, then you can go to the link on my profile. We're in need of authors, and you can improve on your writing skills, as well as making a few new friends at the same time! It's called "Assembling The Pieces" if you want to search it. (It's a Forum in case you wanted to know) **

**Disclaimer: I do not own the Hunger Games in any way shape or form. I only own the arena.**

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**Shaune Greyson, District Five Male POV**

I lift up the thick metal bar onto my shoulder with ease, and carry it over to the power plant. We're repairing an old one – well the one my mother shut down two years ago. The power plant's exterior is a snow white, but it is merely an eyesore against the blue sky. It is nothing but a hunk of metal that is a constant reminder of my mother's foolish mistake. She is the reason why I have no friends. Her mistake is why the rest of the District shuns our family. And all because of one thing. Rebellion.

When I was sixteen, my mother decided to lead a revolution. She was angry at how we were treated, and the long working hours that the people in our District were given. So, she took over one of the power plants and shut it down. She was going to get the other plants too, but she was caught by the Peacekeepers. 17 people were killed that day because of her. I can remember her in the town square as she sat in a chair. She had been sentenced to death for starting an uprising. The Peacekeepers chained her to the chair and turned on the power. My mothers screams rang out over the square as her body thrashed and jolted in agony. Her pale skin turned an angry red and began to char. Her ginger ringlets bounced around her face as it contorted in indescribable pain. Her eyes rolled back into her head until you could only see the whites. Finally, she went still, twitching as the Peacekeepers turned the power off. I was silent. I didn't cry or laugh or get angry. I just…stood there, taking in the sight of my mother's dead body with my own two eyes. Father and Jonathan had cried at the time of her death. My mother's death hit them both hard. At first, Jonathan had nightmares about how she died. Then Father became abusive. He hit Jonathan, telling him that it was his fault as to the reason why Mother is dead. He still does it now. I usually intercept Father's fists to take the brunt of his attacks to protect Jonathan. He hasn't done anything to deserve those blows, so instead I take them for him. To make matters worse, Father is so furious over my mother's death that he was fired from his job at the bakery, and now I am the only source of income in the family. I work long hours, and I work hard, so we usually have just about enough food. That hasn't stopped me from taking tesserae though. We need it.

I lay down the metal bar and walk back into the musty warehouse to get another one. My job is fairly easy, and I enjoy it. There's lots of lifting involved, so I have strong arms and a firm back. If anyone needs any lifting done, I'm your man. Except…nobody ever does anymore. I used to lift everything for everyone around the District, but due to my mother's actions, I barely get a glance from people who pass me in the street nowadays. They blame our family, which is fair enough, but being shunned really sucks. You can't talk to anyone. You can't make friends. You're lonely. Father makes it worse, but at least I have Jonathan. As long as I have him, I'll be fine.

Our work stops early today due to the reapings, and I'm covered in a light sheen of sweat as I walk back to our small house. It's a run down place, and infested with rats, but Father doesn't care. He just sits there and orders Jonathan and I around. He goes ballistic whenever I don't obey him. I just take his lectures and wait for him to calm down. I'm eighteen now. What can he do to boss me around?

I walk in through the door, and dump my pay on the table. Father will probably use half of it anyway. I walk up the rotting and creaky stairs, and I hear whimpering coming from Jonathan's bedroom. Oh no, not again! Father's hit him hasn't he?

I open up the door to see my younger thirteen year old brother curled up on his lumpy bed, sniffling. On the side of his face is a fist shaped black bruise that blooms across his cheek. His blonde hair is greasy and his green eyes are alight with terror.

"S-Shaune?" he whimpers.

"I'm here." I tell him, and I walk into the room and sit on his bed. He snuggles into my side like a cat and I give him a hug, rubbing his back to soothe him. I inspect the large bruise, but Jonathan yelps as soon as my fingers brush the skin. I look at him sadly before going into the corner of the room where there is a small bucket of icy cold water. I dip in a smelly cloth and soak it in the liquid before wringing it out. I brush it gently across Jonathan's cheek, and he jumps a little at the coldness of the cloth as well as the pressure of the contact.

"Is it just the one?" I ask.

"Yes." answers Jonathan. "He didn't get me anywhere else, but he broke one of the chairs and threw it out of the window."

I nod, sighing in exasperation. That's another thing broken.

"It's time to get ready," I remind him, and Jonathan nods, getting up from the bed and looking in the small chest that holds what little clothes he has. He brings out a green t-shirt and some tattered old jeans. They look decent enough. A little ripped here and there, but that's the best we've got at the moment. I leave Jonathan to get ready and I go into my own room, flipping open the chest holding my own clothes. I find my yearly reaping outfit; a yellow dress shirt and black trousers. They're the only smart clothes I have, but at least they look respectable. I use some of the cold water in my room to rub myself down, and I catch my reflection staring back at me. My face looks angry, and for a good reason too. Father hit Jonathan again, and I'll never forgive myself for not being there to protect him – again. My white hair frames my face and it is a little greasy. Yes, you heard me correctly. I have white hair. Father told me that it was as a result of a mutation where my hair colouring genes were not formed properly. My blue eyes shine like ice, yet they are filled with the fiery restlessness of my fury at Father's actions. I calm myself down by washing my face, and I put on my reaping clothes. I meet Jonathan outside my room, and we troop downstairs.

"Dad, are you coming to the reapings?" Jonathan asks tentatively.

My father grumbles restlessly.

"I don't give a damn about whether you die or not." he snaps. The heat rushes from my stomach up to my throat, my temper re-awakens itself as I stride over to my father and pick him up by the scruff of the neck. I've grown so strong that I can lift him up with one arm. Father struggles, but I don't let go. I've had enough of his behaviour. Why can't he just go back to how he used to be?

"Listen here," I tell him stiffly, trying to stop my fury from boiling over. "We're all you've got. When we're gone, you'll have no one. Remember that, and maybe you'll care."

I push him roughly to the floor and spit at him in disgust. My once wonderful Father has turned into this…thing. I stomp out of the house, dragging Jonathan along with me, who is watching me in awe.

"I've never heard you say so much," he says, staring at me in shock. That's probably true. I'm quite a quiet person, and I tend to keep to myself, so people think I'm rather reserved. They're right, but I don't care. Jonathan is the only thing I care about right now. If things go on like this, then I might consider running away. Jonathan needs a better father than he already has, and I'm sure that I could do a better job than Father is right now.

We arrive at the reaping and sign in. Jonathan hisses in pain when his finger is pricked, but I walk him to the thirteen-year-old section before I go to the eighteen year old section at the back. As I arrive, several boys back away from me, in both disgust and fear. I guess that the anger is still showing in my face.

I roll my eyes as the escort rolls on in roller-skates, addressing us in a cheery tone as she pulls up her stripy socks.

"Let's go, let's go, let's go!" she yells, and most of us cover our ears to avoid becoming deaf.

After the film, she rolls over to the girls reaping bowl and takes a slip.

"Florescent Neista!" she trills, delighted, and she claps wildly as a young girl walks up to the stage. She waves at the crowd, but stops mid-wave when nobody waves back. She stands on the stage. The escort then skids to a halt next to the boy's reaping ball.

"Jonathan Greyson!"

My breath catches in surprise as Jonathan starts to walk up. No, no, no, no, no! Jonathan can't go into the arena - he'll die. He's had no training and he'll be dead within the first thirty seconds. I barge my through the other boys my age.

"Jonathan!" I shout. "I VOLUNTEER! I VOLUNTEER!"

My chest is rising and falling rapidly as I speed up to the stage. Jonathan, who has tears running down his cheeks, hugs me tightly.

I look Jonathan in the eye, silently telling him to be strong for me. Jonathan responds by hugging me tighter, and he runs down the stage crying, into the arms of my Father, who appears to be deathly pale. He looks…angry? I hope that he doesn't take it out on Jonathan. I hope he realises how his only source of income is now about to go into the Games. We're all he has, and he's all we've got. I just hope he comes to terms with that before Jonathan gets hurt. I have to make it back, for both of them. When the escort asks me my name, I don't speak. She doesn't deserve to know. She's with the Capitol, and the Capitol tried to take Jonathan's life. And now they're trying to take mine. Someone must have muttered my name, because I am taken off of the stage after I clasp the girl tributes' tiny hand.

* * *

**Florescent Neista, District Five Female POV**

We are in a meadow, talking happily. Half the girls are worried about the reaping day today, but I don't see why they're worrying. What's so bad about the reaping bowl? I'm fourteen, and I've been to two reapings now. Today will be my third. I honestly don't understand why everyone gets so upset when the funky lady opens the little piece of paper. She seems so happy when she reads it, so wherever the people go, it must be a nice place to be. Everyone talks about this thing called the 'Hunger Games', and they get all worried about it! It's not like it's a matter of life or death. I do often wonder what the Hunger Games actually is. I guess it has something to do with food games, and that sounds fun. Maybe people have to win games to get food prizes or something.

Carmen Taps, one of my friends, is talking animatedly about this guy that she saw near the building site. She's the prettiest girl in our group, with blue eyes and short blonde hair, and she's always talking about guys.

"Did you see him?" she says. "He had the biggest muscles ever, with white hair and sexiest blue eyes!"

Another girl grimaces.

"Ew," she says. "White hair? What is he, an old man?"

"I heard he was like, eighteen or something," Carmen says dreamily. "Maybe he'll take me away and we'll live happily ever after!"

"Wait, isn't he that guy whose Mommy started the rebellion and was electrocuted in public?" a third girl pipes up.

Some of her words spark my interest.

"What does electrocuted mean?" I ask, interested.

"Never mind." the girl mutters, and waves her hand as if to brush away my question.

"Well either way, he's hot," says Carmen, picking up a bead and threading it onto one of her bracelets.

"He's really quiet though, and he doesn't speak to anyone," a fourth girl mentions.

"It doesn't matter," Carmen declares. "I like it when they're mysterious."

The group giggles and I laugh with them. We can see a few people walking down the road to the town square.

"Time to go!" Carmen says, and we all laugh and cheer.

I skip down the road to my house, and I fly through the door, seeing Mommy in the kitchen.

"Hi Mommy!" I say cheerily.

"Hello dear," she says kindly as she wipes down the sides of our kitchen with a cloth. "Where have you been?"

I walk around the table and hop onto the seat at the head of it.

"We were talking about a boy who had a Mommy who started a rebellion and got electrocuted," I tell her. "I asked them what electrocution means, but they didn't tell me. Mommy, do you know what electrocution means?"

"No, I don't," Mommy replies smoothly, brushing her reddish hair out of her green eyes. "But I'm sure it doesn't matter that much,"

I shrug.

"Nope," I say. "It doesn't."

"Those girls are a bad influence on you…" mutters Mommy, but I don't really understand what a 'bad influence' is, so I just ignore her comment. I stare at my Mommy's skinny frame as she scrubs the counter. Although Mommy and Daddy do their best to hide it, I know that we don't have that much food at home. We can't afford a lot of it, but Mommy and Daddy always try to make me eat more than them. I refuse, because I feel bad about it. It's not fair for me to have all the food, so I eat small portions so we have more to go around. I don't look like Mommy, with my auburn hair and small face. I have a small trail of freckles across my nose, that Mommy doesn't have too.

At this point, Daddy comes down the stairs.

"Daddy!" I cry and I jump into his arms, hugging him around the neck. Daddy is really tall, and his head almost touches the ceiling! His hair is a chocolaty-brown, and it's always really shiny and slippery to the touch. Mommy calls his hair greasy, but I don't really know what that means.

"Are you ready Daddy?" I ask him. "It's time to go to the reapings! It's gonna be fun!"

Daddy's eyes flicker towards Mommy for a second, but then his face breaks into a smile.

"I need to get dressed," he tells me. "Why don't you run along and see Rosie? I'll see you at the reapings,"

"OK!" I say, and both of them kiss me on the head before letting me go. I hum as butterflies fly through the air above me, and tulips dance in the slow beat of the light breeze. I arrive at Rosie's house just as she walks out of the door.

Rosie Shattiere has been one of my best friends for a while now. She has milky chocolate skin, with caramel eyes and brown hair, and she's the same age as me. I didn't see her in the meadow today, but she usually is, chatting away with the rest of us.

"Hi Florescent," Rosie says. "How are you? Is everything OK?"

"Yep!" I say. "Everything is just fine!"

I take her by the hand, and we walk to the town square. We sign in, and the lady in a suit pricks my finger, which hurts. Rosie walks with me to the fourteen year old section and we stand there. I ignore the film, because it's boring and always has been, instead, focusing on the clear ball with all the little slips inside. I don't understand why it's there. Why do people get so scared when their name is picked out of the bowl? I see Carmen in the fifteen-year-old section behind me, and I wave. She only shakes her head in reply. The film finishes and a woman slides around in roller-skates across the stage. She looks really happy.

"Girls first!" she says, and she makes her way over to the reaping bowl. I stand next to Rosie, squeezing her hand nervously as the woman walked up to the bowl that everyone seemed to be afraid of. I wanted to know why. Maybe Rosie could help me.

"Rosie," I whispered. "What's so bad about that bowl?"

"Shhh, now's not the time"

I nod and look back up to the stage where the crazy looking woman opens up a little piece of paper and reads something out.

"Florescent Neista!"

I look up at Rosie, who was staring at me, trying to say something through her shock. I raised my eyebrows at her expression.

"What's wrong?" I say. "Why did she say my name?"

I hear crying and I look over to see Carmen wiping her eyes with a tissue.

"Rosie…?" I ask curiously, wanting to know why everyone was so upset and scared for me. Rosie takes a firm hold on my hand.

"Good luck," she tells me. "Ask the boy what's going on when you get to the train. Just…just go to the stage."

I nod nervously, and the crowd parts for me, watching with wide eyes as I hop up the steps of the stage, humming. My eyes look over all of them. Why do they look so scared and surprised? I waved a little, but I put my hand down when they started looking nervous. I don't like this, not at all. And I don't know why.

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**So there are our District Five tributes. What do you think of Shaune's father and his abusive personality? How do you think Shaune is going to do in the arena? And the innocent Florescent? How do you think she is going to react to the fact that she'll have to kill to survive?**

**Please review! Reviews help me to know if there are any mistakes that I am making, and they increase the chances of your favourite tributes living for longer!**

**The more devoted you are to your tribute (if you're someone who submitted) or a tribute you like (submitters and readers alike), then the higher the chance of them surviving for longer in the arena.**

**I wish you all goodnight!**

**~ E.E.**


	7. Chapter 7

**Hello again! Thank Goodness I've managed to update…**

**With all of the work I've had to do, I'm surprised that my brain has not turned to mush! I apologise for the lateness of this update. School keeps me way too busy…**

**I also received a head injury, so that has slowed me down too. I had to have my head glued and it's been annoying me.**

**Thank you to aprilgirl01, OceaneBreeze13, BamItsTyler, WendyHamlet, Mayasha-chan, EllipticDART, TheGlitchOnFire, 212, and mightya for the reviews. I can see how some of you were laughing at Florescent…XD**

**Also thank you to everyone who has favourited and followed, including mightya and YoungAssassin, the new readers to the story. **

**I will say again, that FireflyLlama is doing a 24 Author Collaboration, and we are in desperate need of authors! Please follow the link on my profile to the forum, or just PM me if you want to ask any questions before you check it out.**

**Thanks to The Koala Of Doom and 212 for submitting the District 6 tributes!**

**Disclaimer: I do not own the Hunger Games in any way, shape or form. I only own the arena and my ridiculously long authors note.**

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**Sedan Bristol, District Six Male POV**

I bathe in the warm darkness of my sleep, desperately clinging on to the fluttering fabrics of my dream. It is a memory – a faint one at that. I vaguely remember that it had something to do with a sword in my hand, but I can't remember much else. The dream fades fast in my mind, and even though I try to empty out my brain finding the memory, it still evades me. Well, that's just peachy isn't it?

I can feel myself waking up as I take in the silence of my bedroom. If I listen hard enough, I can hear the voices of my twin and older sister talking to each other downstairs. I don't want to open my eyes. Not even by a crack. I don't want to let a single ray of light past my heavy eyelids. Why? Because it's the _best_ day of the year. Reaping day. I am so excited, that I'm leaping out of my bed in my enthusiasm.

I push back the covers and stretch. Mom always lets me sleep in on reaping day. She knows how I love the Hunger Games.

My limbs managed to animate themselves as I clamber out of bed. I check myself in the mirror. Green eyes. Blond hair. Looking wide awake.

I decide to have a wash in preparation for the reapings. Everyone is always so excited about The Hunger Games, and I'm totally looking forward to having the chance to volunteer. Not.

I get dry, and I choose my clothes for the day; a grey shirt with matching trousers. I'm still trying to cling onto the memory in my head, but I give up. I scratch one of my muscular shoulders, and troop downstairs. I walk into the kitchen, and my lovely sisters stop speaking and give me piercing glares. My older sister is nineteen, and my twin and I are seventeen. They never speak to me though. They either act as if I'm some kind of deadly disease, or they completely blank me.

Mom's out working in the hovercraft factory today. They'll be stopping early for the reapings, but I'll be well on my way by the time she gets back. I get some toast, and walk out of the door. I check the clock in our house, and I see that I still have half an hour. But of course, who would want to go to the reapings half an hour early when they have such a kind and welcoming family back at home?

Some people pass me on the streets, going about their daily business, and giving me small waves and worried smiles. I simply nod in reply, or return the high fives of my friends that are going off to do things before the reaping starts. I have lots of friends, but none of them are really very close to me.

I stroll down the road and finish off my breakfast. I don't really have anything to do at the moment, so I decide to go and have lots of fun at the reapings. Yay! The Hunger Games! I love it when all of the tributes are killing each other, because they want to go home to their families and friends. It's just _so_ entertaining to watch. I am literally glued to the screen.

I sign in and barely wince as my blood is taken ever so gently from my fingertip. There's practically nobody here, but I walk to the seventeen year old section anyway. Eventually, people start filing in. I end up high fiving a few more people. Y'know, I'm so hyped up for the Games that I could stay here all day. I am _so_ excited; you can just see it in my face. I totally want to be here.

I zone out through the escorts captivating and inspiring speech, and I wait for her to pick the girls from the reaping ball. She flounces over and reads out the name of a young girl who skips up the steps and has a dreamy look on her face. Well, she's living long in the arena, isn't she? Some people around me snigger as if answering my thoughts, but I don't do anything. The escort plucks out a slip.

"Sedan Bristol." She says, and I realise that I've been called.

I don't feel anything. I'm not sad or angry with the Capitol for letting me get reaped. I just walk up to the stage. Clouds of dust rise and fall as my feet take long strides towards the stage, thumping on the ground in time with my beating heart. I don't care. People look at me as I pass them, their eyes watching me like hundreds of hawks. Some look at me in pity, shock or sadness, but I know my family won't care. They're probably smiling. Even the Peacekeepers eyes seem to follow me as I mount the stage. Maybe they can feel my enthusiasm for the oh-so-wonderful Games, leaking from the thousands of pores in my skin. I look out over the expanse of the crowd, uncaring. I don't even feel sorry for the girl, as she hums away, off with the fairies as they say. She looks as if she wouldn't hurt a fly, and she's so small that if I hugged her, then she'd probably turn into a human pancake.

The escort asks us to shake hands, and I tower over both of them as I take the girls smaller hand in my own and shake it. Her hand is so small that my big hand envelops hers completely. She smiles up at me, but I just stare back emotionlessly. What was the point in getting attached to a weak tribute like this girl, when she would most likely die in the first couple of minutes anyway? Well, all the other tributes are going to be so easy to beat, so this one should be no different. I can't wait for the Games. I am _so _looking forward to spilling the blood of innocent children.

_Happy Hunger Games! _I tell myself, and we are escorted off of the stage.

**Zest Churna, District Six Female POV**

I wake up to feel sunlight bursting through the windows. Today is reaping day, but I don't care! I won't be picked. I practically leap out of bed.

"Good Morning District Six!" I holler, and I skip over to my window, drawing back the white curtains and opening it. The smell of the district wafts in through my window. Seen as we're the transportation District, the air from the outside doesn't smell too great. Well, at least it isn't so smelly that we can barely breathe. I'd rather the air be like this than have it any worse. I skip around, tidying up my room for a couple of hours and drawing lots of wonderful pictures with my blunt pencil. Yeah, it's blunt, but at least I have one! I draw lots of pictures; ones of flowers, and green meadows, the seaside where the sun dances lazily off of the water…

I am happy with the way I am and how my life runs. The Capitol has never affected me in any way, nor have we had any hardship, seen as we're a rich family in District Six. We have plenty of food, and although we have trouble with luxuries such as paint, paper and pencils, we're better off compared to the poor people in the District. They often beg me for money, or try to sell me their bodies, but I'm only young, and Dad said I wasn't old enough yet. Thirteen-year-old girls needed to grow up a little before finding themselves a man. But I didn't want a man. I wanted to fly high in the air and be free. I wanted to have lots of fun, and to be rich and to be happy and have plenty of food and…well, that's about it. I want to be free, like the birds are to the sky. All they have to do is just fly over the fences to freedom. If only I could have that too. I'd love to escape, but I'd easily get caught. Oh well. At least I'm safe and warm here at home.

Home is quite a cosy place for me. Some children don't have it like I have, where families beat or shun their kids. Well, at least they haven't been beaten to death yet.

I always try my very best to think on the bright side of life. Why be all doom and gloom when you can be happy and let your problems run free? Smiling is better for you too – Mom said so, so it must be true. There are so many sad faces around at school, but I always try to brighten up everyone's day with a great big smile. I have lots of friends, but they probably think I'm too happy and enthusiastic because they tend to leave me alone. Well, at least I have friends. At least I'm liked. I don't want to be a loner. I see a few of them sometimes, with their faces downcast as they walk home in the pouring rain. They seem so melancholy and just downright upsetting. They should be happy that they're still alive and that they have family to go back to. Why wouldn't you be happy when you have all of this? You have life, and surely that's a good enough reason to be happy?

People tend to worry about my attitude. They think I'm ditzy, but really, I'm just a Miss Bright Side. Everyone worries too much, and there has to be someone to lighten up your day. A smile can mean a lot to someone – especially to those leering old men when I flash them one of my most radiant smiles. They give me toothless replies as they reach out to me. I can't stop their poverty, but at least I can get them to smile. Aren't they so lovely? Yet, as soon as I leave, their poor faces drop down into wrinkled lines that have been carved into their faces over the years of their existence. My heart often feels heavy when I see them sad, but I always look on the bright side. I mean, at least they're still alive. That's great!

Mom has left me a note on the table to make my own way to reaping, because she has to take Baby Prentice to the doctors to treat his cough. Lucky we can afford that too.

I decide to dress in a silver tutu with a green top, as well as luminous yellow leg warmers and orange flip-flops. I'm not great with fashion, but it doesn't bother me. Why should I dress up when I'm not getting picked anyway? I feel sorry for those who are reaped, because they always die in horrible and painful ways. But it doesn't worry me, because they're all in a better place now. Suffering in the arena can only give people a better something to look forward to at the end. You either get lots of money, or you go to heaven. Simple.

I check myself out in the mirror, not bothering with my blonde hair, which is slightly dishevelled from being in bed. My brown eyes look stunning, and I shrug at my unfashionable appearance. I could be in a clown suit, and that would be horrible. I shudder, and set my thoughts on a lighter topic. Food.

I can never get enough of food. We have plenty of it in our house, but I always want it. I mean I'm not fat or chubby, but I'm always hungry. Mom said it's because of my metabolism, and that seems to make sense. Well, at least I'm not fat.

I walk out of the house and down to reapings, letting the white suited people prick my finger. It hurts, but I'd rather that than something worse. I don't bother looking at the escort as he goes through his yearly speech. It's boring, but it's better than listening to my history teacher for half an hour.

"Zest Churna," the escort calls, and I realise that I've been reaped. I sigh, but I skip through the crowd and up to the stage. At least I still have a chance to come home. And it's not like someone would hurt a sweet little girl like me would they?

* * *

**There are your District Six tributes - half way through the reapings now!**

**Oh my goodness. Zest was a killer to write. She's rather similar to Florescent in a few ways. How do you think she will do? As for Sedan, his family shun him, and he's just been reaped to fight to the death. How do you think he's going to fare in the Games? What do you think of our District Six tributes?**

**I've cast an eye out over all 24 of the tribute forms, and I have bloodbath tributes now. I've read them all thoroughly, and I've made my decision. I've also been really serious about all of this. I actually have tables telling me about how many reviews each person has written, and how many good reviews about the characters there are. Yes, I know, what a weirdo XD **

**Bye for now! **

**~E.E.**


	8. Chapter 8

**Hi there, I'm back! I'm excited, because I am touring around universities to make the final adjustments and choices as to where I'm going to go. I just want to go already! But, I still have 7 weeks of school and exams to get through yet. Well, it never ends with the IB…**

**Thank you to Titanic X (Reviewed all 7 chapters, thanks so much!), lastofdavid, HawkwardDolphin, 212, BamItsTyler, EllipticDART and OceaneBreeze13 for reviewing! Also thank you to all of the favourites and follows! I'm glad that you're liking the story.**

**Alrighty then. Thank you to thelastofdavid and Hunger G94 for submitting the District Seven Tributes!**

**Disclaimer: I do not own the Hunger Games in any way, shape or form. I only own the arena.**

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**David Peterson, District Seven Male POV**

The green grass ripples in the wind, as if a raindrop has fallen into a puddle of water. The ripple extends its reach, spanning the weed filled field, and sending the blades of grass into a restless display of movement. The battered ball lies in the ankle high grass. It is quite old and a little bit flat, and it sits there, waiting for me to kick it. I'm standing ten metres away, panting. That should be far enough for a good run up.

Ahead of me, between two trees, stands my best friend, Reid Blair. His black hair bobs up and down as he prepares himself for my penalty kick. As I judge the angle of where the ball will go, my other two friends - Mateo and Owen – stand at the sides, preparing to run in and intercept my shot. I run and kick the ball, watching with bated breath as it soars high into the air in a shallow curve, before flying past Reid's outstretched arms and bouncing through the gap in the trees.

"Goal!" I cheer, while Owen and Mateo curse at their failure. Reid simply picks himself up and smiles as he retrieves the ball. He checks his watch.

"Hey guys," he calls to us. "I'm going to go and get ready for the reapings. I'll meet you all in the square."

We all wave and say our goodbyes to him, and he runs off home.

"I've got to go too," says Owen.

"Yeah, same here," agrees Mateo.

"I'll meet you guys in the square as well then," I say. "Bye!"

I wave as we go our separate ways. I decide that it is time for me to get ready for the reapings as well, so I head home. Some of the kids on the street are also hurrying home as fast as they can. It seems that there are quite a few in a hurry this year.

As I walk briskly down the gravel streets, nobody talks to me. If anything, they all do their best to avoid me by walking on the other side of the street.

You see, my friends and I are outcasts. Because we're not cool or popular, people tend not to like us that much. We're seen as losers, weirdo's. We're not important to them. That's why we all decided to be friends so that we could create our own group. Now, we don't really mind if we are outcasts, because we have each other. After all, we're not really outcasts. We just like different things.

I see a pretty girl looking at me seductively from across the street, but I don't go over to her for a chat. I'm not confident enough really. I doubt I could say a word to her without stuttering. I'm surprised that she doesn't know that I'm an outcast. Or maybe she does, but she doesn't care. Some people are like that in our District. They don't judge you for who you are at all. Either way, I'm too shy to ask her why she's looking at me of all people.

I get home, and open the door. The kitchen is vacant, with it's cold floor and polished wooden surfaces. Several slices of white bread lie steaming on the side, with a sharp knife and spreading knife beside them. The metal reflects the sunlight from the window, and I blink several times at the piercing light that assaults my constricting irises.

"I'm home!" I shout to the silent house, and within seconds, movement can be heard from upstairs. I listen to the footsteps on the stairs and I can tell its Mom. She walks into the kitchen and envelops me in the warmth of her embrace, her black hair tickling my cheek as she does so. She smells like the bread from the side, and I realise that she must have brought it from the bakery not so long ago.

"I was going to steal it," she jokes as she notices where my eyes are looking. "But I decided to pay for it instead."

Mom is quite a rebellious character, despite her undying love for her husband and son. She likes to defy the Peacekeepers just that little bit, where she can annoy them, but not to the extent where she is punished for it. I like that part of Mom. She tends to add a bit of excitement to your day, and that's the best Mom that anyone can have in my opinion.

"I'm going to go and get ready Mom," I tell her, gesturing to my clothes that have been coated in a small layer of mud.

She shakes her head in mock disapproval.

"You really shouldn't do that to your clothes." she tells me, but smiles anyway as I laugh and troop upstairs. I walk into my room and have a wash, rubbing the mud from both my skin and my clothes the best I can. My reflection in the water reminds me of the red birthmark on my throat shaped like a strawberry. My green eyes – one smaller than the other – follow the scars on my olive skinned face. My light brown hair is short and is spiked up slightly at the front, and I run my hands through it, my thin frame hunched over as I bring handfuls of water over my head.

My room is a modest size, and the walls are covered in maps. I love to read maps. The fact that you can see the size of an area or understand how to get around that area can be highly beneficial. Using maps can get you around easily, so I keep them on my wall. There are lots of maps on my walls; some of Panem when it was called 'The Unites States of America', one that maps out the entire expanse of District Seven, and even one that maps out a strange icy area that apparently once existed before all of it melted into the sea. I remember reading many maps and factual books about the world before Panem. Everyone thought I was autistic because I was so quiet and so obsessed with the ream of paper at my fingertips. But in reality, I was just shy and not as outgoing as some of the other boys in my District.

On my desk is a wind up toy train that has been taken apart completely. My friends share the same passion as me when it comes to technology. We love to see how things work, and we often take things apart to see how they have been made. I'm planning on putting the train back together another time.

I dry myself and walk to the wardrobe. I pull on a dark grey t-shirt, with dark blue jeans and black basketball shoes. I'm ready for the reapings.

I go downstairs, and I can hear Dad's voice in the kitchen, talking to Mom about his work today at the paper-making factory he works at.

"Hey Dad," I say, as I walk in. Dad smiles at me, and nods his salt and pepper coloured hair in my direction.

"How are you doing?" he asks cheerfully. Work must have gone nicely for him.

"I'm OK." I say simply, returning Dad's smile. I don't talk much. That must have been part of the reason why everyone thought I was autistic. They must have thought that I didn't have the mental strength to express myself, but I can do that just fine. I generally choose not to speak very much. And it's not like I'm not mentally strong. I mean, I have a near photographic memory, and I can remember most of the plants that I've studied in a split second. If anything, my physical strength is not up to standard. I'm thin and lanky, with little muscle mass, so I wouldn't be able to beat someone to a pulp that easily. That reminds me of the Hunger Games. I don't know if I'll be able to heft a sword, but I know that I'm not bad with an axe.

Dad glanced at his watch.

"You better get going for the reapings, or you'll be late." Dad tells me. I nod in reply. This is my penultimate year in the reapings, seen as I'm seventeen now. I remember that I used to ask Mom or Dad to hold my hand as we walked to the reapings because I was scared of them. Now though, the reapings are a bit of a bore. Listening to the same film every year and waiting for way too long for two tributes to be chosen can become quite repetitive. I feel really sorry for the tributes of course, but there's nothing we can do to help them to survive, because the Capitol are in complete control.

Mom hands me a sandwich, and presses the warm, dry bread into my hands before kissing my head and wishing me good luck. I make my way to the reapings.

We don't live too far from the town square, but I still take my time to get there, weaving in and out of rundown houses and white palaces on my way to arrive at the reapings on time. Of course, I'm in no hurry, but I can't be late, can I?

Reid is the first to join me on my peaceful stroll down to the town centre. I mean, it's not like I'm frolicking through the flowers, but it's a relaxing silence. It makes a change from the whirr of the factories and the sounds of chopping axes.

We soon meet Mateo and Owen on our little walk, and we're all silent as we all reflect on the possibility of us being reaped. Earlier today, I wouldn't have given a thought in the world to the fact that I could be chosen like a lamb to the slaughter. But now that the reapings are merely minutes away, I feel jittery. I shouldn't now that I'm used to it, but I guess that it's just some kind of natural reaction of mine that spontaneously happens whenever the reapings come around.

We queue in the line, Owen rubbing his ginger hair - a nervous tick of his. Mateo seems to be still, but on the inside I know that he's worried too. Reid doesn't seem to be affected either, but he's managed to perfect the concealment of his emotions over the years in case he's reaped. If he is seen to be emotionless, then he won't be discarded as a bawling baby who will be dead within minutes of the Games.

We get our fingers pricked, and we gather near the edge of the seventeen year old section. As usual, several people move away from us, but others just don't seem to care, and stay where they are.

"Good Luck!" I whisper to Reid, Owen and Mateo, and they reply with something similar. I can almost hear my own heartbeat as a suited man walks onto the stage. The video is played, describing how Panem rose from the ashes and how we're punished for the faults of our ancestors. The video ends, and I sigh impatiently as the suited man walks regally to the girls reaping ball. His movements are precise and purposeful, one soft, barely audible step in front of the other. His fingers are manicured as they hover over the slips of paper in the bowl, as if deciding on one to take. It's almost as if it is predetermined for him to pick out that one slip that will bring a girls hopes and dreams crashing down around her.

"Karina Faust!" the man calls in a posh, rich accent.

A girl about my age steps up to the stage, the tears on her face flowing down her tanned cheeks as she mouths to a boy near me not to volunteer. The boy is shaking in either his anger towards the Capitol or his sadness from the sobs that rack his body. Either way, he's upset, but he stays put.

I realise that this girl was the girl who was staring at me seductively on the street earlier. I feel sorry for her. It's a shame that a pretty face like hers was most likely going to be ruined.

The suited man walks over to the boy's reaping bowl and pauses again, almost as if he is pausing for tension. He pulls out a slip and opens it.

"David Peterson!" he calls in his accent, and I stand there numbly for a second before walking up to the stage. I feel as if it is a Walk of Shame, as the other kids in our District watch me as I pass them. I don't look back. I don't make eye contact with anyone. Not even with Mom or Dad, because I know that I'll cry if I do. And crying won't help me where I'm going. I just need to keep my head down and get on with things. I mumble my name to the escort, and I wish that I had taken this more seriously. I could have trained, or readied myself for the blood that was to come. I'm no fighter, but I'm going to have to try anyway.

I'm going to have to train hard when I get to the Capitol. As hard as I can.

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**Karina "Kari" Faust, District Seven Female POV**

I watch the boy as he walks away from me on the street. He seems shy and distant, and almost looks as if he is going to talk to me before he scampers off. But that reminds me. I need to get ready too.

I speed through alleyways and zip around street corners before I come to my first destination: the house of the sweet shop owner. His shop looks so pretty that it's likely to be the richest shop in the District. And if it isn't, then it sure is the brightest.

A bright red painted door, with wide windows that display cases upon cases of sweets; some filled with golden coins that would melt in one's mouth, others filled with pear drops, or Devonshire fudge. There are rows of mint humbugs and bonbons, curtains of striped sticks of rock or hanging rectangles of fizzy, sugary sweetness. This shop is every child's dream. But I'm not here for the sweets.

I run across the road and down the side of the shop, clambering up on top of the brick wall, and walking swiftly along the top of it. The wall rises higher, and eventually I'm at least ten metres off the ground, and I hold my arms out to steady myself, as the man's back garden comes into view. It's a fairly neat garden, with green grass and a few flowers, but the main reason I'm here is for the tree at the end of his small stretch of nature. The apple tree.

The main problem with going on this small quest of mine, is that I am so high up that it's very easy for me to break something if I fall off. Still, I have to get those apples, because every little bit of food helps. I take out several knifes from my belt, and I sit down on the wall, narrowing my eyes and aiming at one of the apples in the tree. I do this all the time before I get my apples – I mean, it's not likely, but if I ever was reaped for the Hunger Games, at least I would be able to fight with throwing knives. I flick my wrist, sending the knives into the apples on the tree. One of them misses and lands at the bottom of the tree, but I'll get that in a minute. I listen out for the sweet shop man, but I hear nothing, so I continue along the wall until it curves around so it runs along side the tree. Here, a thick branch stretches out over the wall, it's brown bark criss-crossed with growing vines and creeping honeysuckle. The tree's green leaves looking almost as juicy and colourful as the apples themselves. I climb into the tree, but I go down to retrieve my fallen knife first before climbing back up again. I can climb pretty well really. After all, I was a lead climber for a while before Daniel told me to stop. Now I do lots of odd jobs to help us survive, and so does he. One of these little jobs just happens to be stealing from the sweet shop man's apple tree. And it _is _only a few apples. Surely he won't miss a few apples?

I always feel guilty for stealing from the man, but I have to survive, and my options are few. I climb up the tree, plucking apples off the branches, and filling satchel at my side. The satchel is pretty old, but it's all I have to use, so it's something I guess. I scurry up the tree like a squirrel, gracefully leaping along the wall until I step on a stone. Naturally, I cry out as I wobble, the bag of apples making me top heavy. I teeter for a few seconds, wobbling around like a scarecrow in the wind. I finally regain my balance, only for a door to slam loudly. I freeze in place like a statue as my heart pumps faster. Is that the man?

I wait for a few more seconds, before I decide that the coast is clear, before continuing along the wall and getting down from it. I travel for a little while before I reach the cabin that Daniel and I share. I've been living on my own for four years now, after I ran away from my Aunt Anya. I used to live with my Mom, but she died when I was eleven from lung cancer, so my aunt had to take care of me. I never knew who my Dad was. My Aunt couldn't cope with the loss of my Mom, and because I bear such a resemblance to Mom, she started to hit me. I ran away the same year, because I couldn't take it anymore.

That's when I met Daniel, who's Mom had also died. I soon found out that his Mom cared for my Mom when she was sick, and we kind of became friends after that. Daniel's sixteen – one year older than me – and he is a lot like the older brother I never had.

I stare at the log cabin in front of me, and I smile. Here is my home. I don't care how small it is, or the fact that we have barely enough food and water for both of us to live on, because here is better than anywhere else in the world.

I walk in, and empty the satchel of apples into the wooden bowl on the small creaky table.

"Hey," Daniel says from the other side of the room. "How is it out there?"

"It's alright," I reply. "Nobody saw me, as usual."

I gesture to the apples.

"I got seven, so we'll have to share the last one,"

Daniel nods.

"OK." he says.

He moves the bucket of water behind him a little to the left so that he can change his sitting position. He arranges the blankets of our "beds" into some kind of formation.

"Isabelle, came today," he tells me.

"Cool," I reply, dumping my satchel next to my collection of blankets. I reach into my pockets and pull out a few coins from today's labour, before putting them into the cracked bowl too.

Isabelle Oak was a close friend of my Mom's, and she's really nice. At first she didn't know that I'd run away from Aunt Anya, but when she found out, she tried to find me a job so that Daniel and I could be fed and watered. She kindly puts a portion of her earnings aside to pay for the little cabin we live in, and the stuff we have.

I now work in a paper-making factory, where the air quality is so bad that I feel as if I'm choking on it. The Doctor's thought that that was how Mom got lung cancer, but it's my only source of income, so it's that or nothing. I work long hours, and often I feel as if years of my life have passed when it's only been a day. I was released early for the reapings, so I've come back to get ready. I go into the bathroom at the back of the cabin to check that my appearance is respectable in the cracked mirror. My almond shaped brown eyes scan over my sun-tanned skin, and glance over my brown straight hair. I've put it up in a ponytail for now, but if it was let down, then it would reach my shoulder blades. I close the door behind me and have a wash in the big bucket in the corner of the cabin. The water is cold, but only the rich get warm water here, so I'm used to it. I get myself dry, and I take one of the towels next to the bucket and wrap it around myself. I walk out of the bathroom.

"You'd better get ready too," I tell Daniel. He glances up and nods.

"Alright then." He says, and he heads into the bathroom while I go over to the chest that holds all of our clothes. I sort though the folded fabric, trying to find something that looks good enough for the reapings. Because of the increase in the money we've been getting, we might be able to buy a second chest and some more clothes. This chest is nearly full, so it definitely shows how over the years, we've managed to save some extra money for a change of clothing.

I settle on a simple t-shirt and jeans, and I sling them on after rubbing myself dry. Daniel walks out in a towel, and he gets ready too.

We leave ten minutes later, and I walk down the street with Daniel.

"Do you think either of us will get reaped?" I ask him.

"I don't know," he replies. "We've had to take tesserae, but that's not uncommon around here, so we might get away with it this year."

I cast my mind over what the arena might be like this year. It is sure to be "interesting" as the Capitolites call it, and if I'm reaped, I'm sure I'll be able to survive long enough to come home. I'd hate to be reaped, because I'm worried if they'll use a mutt of Daniel or Mom on me. I wouldn't be able to kill them, and then I'd be dead with no chance of returning to Daniel and Isabelle.

"I'll see you after the reapings," I tell Daniel as we line up and sign in. I give Daniel a sisterly hug and a wave as I walk to the fifteen-year-old section.

He waves back and shouts "Good Luck Kari!"

He quickly disappears into the crowd of sixteen-year-old boys.

A suited man with a posh accent runs through the initial speech and video, and before I know it, the man has walked over to the girls reaping ball, and is reading someone's name out.

"Karina Faust!"

Then I realise that the name belongs to me. _I've _been reaped! Me! I have to say that I was prepared for this to happen, but I never thought it actually would. Unexpected tears slide down my cheeks, and I start to cry as I walk up to the stage. I stand there as I look over to Daniel. He looks like he's about to volunteer, so I shake my head and mouth to him not to come up. The posh man calls out another boys name instead, and I sigh in relief that it is not Daniel.

"David Peterson!"

A boy walks up, and I receive a nasty shock. David Peterson just happens to be the boy I was staring at this morning. He's not looking at anyone, obviously trying not to cry. Well, he's doing a much better job than I am right now.

"District Seven, here are your tributes for the 80th Hunger Games!"

I'm not looking forward to this...

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**So…District Seven…**

**I actually realise that I've written a lot more for these tributes, but they were so easy to write that they just came out. It's just one of those days today. **

**David seems to be having a bit of a bad day though. Do you feel any empathy for him, seen as he is an outcast? Do you think that he'll survive for long? As for Karina (Kari), she's got some balancing skills! Do you think she'll have any chance in the arena? And what did you think of her past? **

**Hope that you're all doing alright and dealing with the stress of upcoming exams or whatever other stresses that you have to deal with at the moment. I will wish you a Happy St. Patrick's Day, and I hope to update this Saturday.**

**Bye for now, and keep vouching for your favourite tributes!**

**~E.E.**


	9. Chapter 9

**Hi! Lots going on now, but I'm slicing through it! How are all of you? I've noticed that some of you are really looking forward to the Capitol chapters, which will be very soon. I'm excited too! The Capitol chapters are going to be fun to write; especially since there will be some drama!**

**One day late. Don't kill me! o_O**

**Thank you to OceaneBreeze13, thelastofdavid, 212degrees, Mayasha-chan, Titanic X and BamItsTyler for reviewing. Yes if there is a long list of reviewers, I WILL type them out. As for silent readers and followers…please review. You know you want to ;D**

**Right then. Four chapters left after this one. Thank Goodness that this one is over - I struggled!Thank you to The Koala Of Doom and TheEvilLittleBitch for the District Eight tributes!**

**Disclaimer: I don't own the Hunger Games in any way, shape, or form. I only own the arena. I also do not own the Harry Potter reference in this chapter.**

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**Nicolo Boone, District Eight Male POV**

I walk home from the park exhausted. I got in two fights today; one with the bully who thought he could try and take my baseball bat from me, and the other was with a kid in my class who tried to start on me. I mean, I don't intend to get into fights, but they always seem to happen. I usually win, but that's not really my fault. Luckily, I always pick the fights I know I can win.

I trudge home with my best friend Mirko at my side. Everyone laughs at him and calls him a pretty boy. He's rich and spoiled, but he's not bad enough to get picked on for no reason.

"Good playing today," I tell him.

"Yeah…" he says, drifting off. "I wish that guy hadn't taken the bat though. It kinda ruined all the fun we had."

I nod silently, and our conversation dissipates into thin air, like the spray of water from an erupting geyser.

We pass the clothes factory where my Mom and Dad work. It's a big grey industrial building, where you can hear the hum of the electric and heating machines, and the faint sounds of stamping and sewing machines as they plough on, working. I know that I'll have to prepare for the reapings myself. Even on my first reaping, I was alone and I had to deal with the adrenaline coursing through my veins. It was horrible, because I thought that I was going to get reaped. Two years on, there is still the small flutter of worry in my stomach, but I'm getting used to it now. I just hope that I'll be alright. I don't want to get reaped.

I arrive in our home; a small but neat house for an average family of District Eight. Our family is fairly average, with both of my parents working in clothes factories, and my younger twelve-year-old brother dancing around the house, being an idiot (as per usual). I've always had enough to eat due to our average income, but I only have baseball as my source of entertainment. Luckily, I like the sport, so I rarely get bored of it.

I come into the house after saying goodbye to Mirko. Both of us are quite the quiet typo of person, but I don't think that either of us really care. We're friends and that's what matters I guess.

I walk up the stairs in our house to hear my little brother shout at me from behind his bedroom door.

"Hey Nicolo!" he yells. "You're late! I'm gonna tell Mom and Dad when they get back!"

"Don't care." I mutter and I go into my own room, to get ready for the reapings. I take an icy cold bath, and dress up in a blue shirt and dark jeans. I look smart enough for the reapings, so I'm ready to go. I walk over to the window in my room, and look out of it. The weather certainly seems to reflect the mood of the District. There are large black clouds that gather like deadly smoke, even though it's in the summer. As the raindrops start to patter on the window, I catch someone staring at me. He is about five foot nine, with blond hair swept to the side and dark brown eyes. He has tanned skin and is slightly muscular. Then I realise – it's me.

Cursing myself for my idiocy, I turn away from the window and walk out of my small room.

"Ready yet?" I call to my brother, and he mumbles something and scuffles around for the next ten minutes. That is what annoys me about my brother. Despite being so annoying and self absorbed, he decides to order me around or tell me off, before doing something wrong or stupid himself! What a hypocrite. I feel like raging at him, but I decide against it, or he'll just run to Mom and Dad after the reapings.

We walk out of the door and down the street, feeling the cold bite of raindrops on our exposed skin. My brother is shaking already, but I'm unsure if it's from the rain and the cold wind, or if he's scared. Probably a mixture of both.

I watch as the goose bumps appear on his arms, like the approach of the sun's shadow as the clouds block out its light. The tiny muscles under the skin contract and relax continuously in the hope of providing more warmth. He huddles closer to me, and I let him, because it _is _his first reaping, and I know how scary it is to have the prospect of losing your life thrown at you. Getting reaped is probably worse, where you'd stand on that stage, frozen in fear like a stone statue. But this is no visit from Medusa; it's a one-way trip to hell. You'd be fleeing from tributes that are stronger than you, and it's probable that you will have a sword through your gut in the first couple of days. Your family will then be reunited with you once more, but you will never see their dripping faces and their scrunched up cheeks as they sob over your rigid body. And that's how it goes, again and again, year after year. Twenty-three go in, and only one comes out. You practically have no chance. A tiny one in twenty-four chance of your return to your home. And even then you will be broken.

I realise that we're about to sign in. My brother makes a small yelping sound when his finger is pricked, and he scuffs his feet and moves in the direction of the twelve-year-old section. Then it is my turn for my blood to be stolen from me, and I make my way to the fourteen-year-old section, to wait for our escort to arrive. I meet up with Mirko.

"Good luck," he says.

"Same to you." I reply.

A woman in a simple blue dress with a black belt walks up to the stage. Her heels are also blue, and they aren't overly high. This looks like a new escort instead of the one from last year, and she seems fairly normal with her curled brown hair and blue lipstick. Unless you count her eyes and her skin. They are a vibrant turquoise, which clashes horridly with her dress. Even her teeth are blue. Capitol fashions continue to amaze me.

She announces the Games in a soft but firm voice, and she reaps the girl, nice and quickly. She doesn't use any of the chitchat the woman used last year.

"Ali Combs."

It sounded like a weird name, and I expect someone with dark hair and eyes to come up. Instead, a girl with a sour look on her face walked up to the stage, her hair dead straight and a dirty blonde, and her eyes an icy blue. She makes a small "hmph" sound, before crossing her arms.

The escort takes a slip from the boys bowl.

"Nicolo Boone."

Blast. I've been chosen. I walk up onto the stage with a straight face. I felt that I looked calm and composed, so I made sure that I did my best to look like that. I didn't need to show any weakness in these Games. Maybe I'd find some allies, and win this. That sounds like a good idea to me. I am hoping there will be some allies that can help me win these Games.

* * *

**Ali Combs, District Eight Female POV**

I strut around my house like I own the place. Well, technically, I DO own the place after my wrinkly old Grandpa finally keels over. How do I survive? Oh, woe is me! Well, because I am so amazing at everything, I can get absolutely anything I want. Why? Because I'm the best, that's why. Nothing more, nothing less.

Sadly, nobody else seems to notice that. I have no friends, but that's only because they're jealous of my boobs and my awesomeness. There you go. Ali the Amazing in a nutshell. After all, I'm much better than that bag of bones over there. He thinks he's a victor, sitting in that wooden rocking chair as he wastes the years he has left in front of a fire. He feels guilty for killing all of the tributes in the arena. See, he won the 20th Hunger Games by surprise attacking his District partner. She was dead within seconds, he took the crown, he got the money, and now all he does is waste it all on alcohol.

I mean, why? What was the point of wasting all of that precious money on alcohol. Go for something more glamourous, like getting me more clothes and sweets for example. Easy. All you have to do is this:

Walk into the shop and find the best dress ever.

Pick up the dress and take it to the till.

Pay for the dress and give it to the best person in the whole wide world.

And if you didn't know, the best person in the world is me.

I walk over to Grandpa, and study his face. The years have brought the spots from his teenage years back to his translucent skin. The purpled rash of old age seeps across the man's exterior, and the blue veins carry pumped blood through his body. His pale and bony hand is clasped around the broken bottle, and dark liquid forms a stain in the carpet. Why isn't he more careful? His body is hunched over, and his eyes are wide and glassy, staring at the writhing flames in his eyes. The bags under his wide sockets hang limply from his face, as if you could simply peel off the skin to reveal a younger version of the man. His hair is wispy, and a mixture of white, brown and red, as the slow red rivers of his open blood vessels fail to clot, and instead run down the back of his head.

I've just killed my Grandpa. Oops.

"I'm going to go and get ready for the reapings, and I'm going to be the best looking girl there," I tell the dead man. "I'm going to shine, and come home unscathed from the reapings. Then you're going to know what it feels like to be cooked. You'll be a charred crisp of nothing once I'm done with you. You'll just have to wait here until I come back."

A small, crazed smile plays on my face, but then it falls back into seriousness. I'm a killer, so that now makes me the best murderer in the whole of Panem. I'm not just a killer though. I'm a _victor_ killer. And I'm still the best at arguments too. That's now another thing that I'm the best at. Literally if anyone tried to sass me out or to have an argument with me, I would floor them easily.

I walk up the stairs and into my room, brushing my blonde hair, and washing away any evidence that I've just committed murder. They can't charge me for it. I can argue my case better than anyone can. Plus, the Capitol love it when victors die, so I must be doing them a favour. Remember the 75th Hunger Games? I'm sure President Snow won't mind too much if he finds out.

I decide to wear a black, body hugging dress, which highlights my body. I look sexy and determined.

I leave the house, and go to the reapings. Signing in is hilarious. I hold up my hand, and barge my way to the front of the line, slapping who ever I want to in the face and leaving red marks. After all, the best must sign in first.

The escort takes her time coming to the stage, and I have to swallow back the bile that comes up my throat. This woman looks like a freaking Cornish Pixie! Except maybe not as blue, but she still bears a close resemblance to one. Everything except her hair is a vibrant blue. Maybe she'll get that done next. What a terrible style. She needs a makeover. Preferably one from me though, because no one can do it better than I can.

She shows us this crappy film, and I stare in boredom at the other seventeen-year-old losers around me. _That_ skirt and _that _top? No way. That dress does not go with that hairstyle. Ew. Seriously, a mini skirt? Whore.

I stop staring at the other girls' disgusting outfits as the equally badly dressed escort walks over to the reaping bowl.

"Ali Combs."

That little-

What a stupid-

How? Why? What have I ever done to deserve this? Now I can't burn Grandpa. Thanks a lot. Nevermind. I can easily win these Games, and I can probably do it with my eyes closed. I may not be able to fight, but they won't be able to either, and my flawless killing skills can get any potential threats out of my way. And then, finished. I'll be back home in a couple of weeks. I'm going to have to air out my house now. I guess that's one disadvantage to being the best person in the world.

Oh well, there will be so many more benefit than losses. Say hello to the victor of the 80th Hunger Games.

* * *

**Done and dusted on this chapter. These tributes are a little interesting, but what do you think of them? Nicolo seems like a mysterious character, seen as there isn't much to learn from him. Do you think he's hiding something? What strengths do you think he'll have in the arena? As for Ali…what a killer to write (no pun intended). Do you think that she'll be able to use her looks and murderous ways to get through the arena? Or do you think that she'll be too self absorbed to focus on her survival?**

**I've also been thinking that every author has like a thing, right? So, for this story I'm doing a little "Ask the Author". Here you can ask me any question (as long as it's not personal) about anything, and I will consider to answer it. I thought this would be a better way for you to get to know me a bit, seen as I don't think you know me that much, other than the fact that I do the IB. Tell me what you think of this idea, and if you like it, ask me a question! If you don't like it, then I'll just ditch the idea. **

**Right then, another update next week. **

**Bye for now!**

**~E.E.**


	10. Chapter 10

**Hi! Lots to talk about.**

**So, you liked the sound of my Ask the Author thing, eh? thelastofdavid asked me a question: **

**thelastofdavid: What is/are your favourite pairings in the Hunger Games fandom?**

**ElementalEvolution: Well, truthfully I support practically any pairing that isn't weird or paedophilic e.g. President Snow and Prim. YUCK! **

**So technically I don't have a favourite. I'm happy with any romance as long as it works and it's not too disgusting. I don't like incest pairings, and to those Buttercup x Katniss shippers, WHAT ARE YOU ON? Seriously, just no. A ship that I do want to exist however, is Mrs Everdeen x Cinna. It may seem weird, but what if Mr Everdeen survived the explosion but was whisked away to the Capitol? He had plastic surgery for his injuries, and he dyed his skin brown and became a stylist. He changed his name as well. It kind of explains how Cinna is so protective of Katniss. I dunno, it was just a thought, and I think it's fairly legit. Meh. XD **

**I hope I answered your question! **

**Thank you to 212degrees, thelastofdavid, BamItsTyler, TheGlitchOnFire, HawkwardDolphin, Mayasha-chan, The Koala Of Doom, Titanic X, OceaneBreeze13 and SpaceAgeDino for the reviews. Yay! **

**Thank you to EllipticDART and OceaneBreeze13 for the District Nine tributes! I understand that a lot of you really can't wait for the Capitol chapters. Well, I'm going to be mean and build tension for you by updating normally. I know, I'm a meanie XD  
Sorry for this chapter being late…I'm beta reading someone's work, and then I realised I needed to do this. I really need to learn to juggle everything… :-/**

**Disclaimer: I do not own the Hunger Games in any way, shape or form. I also do not own Pepsi or Coca-Cola (just to be safe!). I only own the arena and my ridiculously long authors note. I also own ten new reviews. Thanks!**

* * *

**Derek Schutze, District Nine Male POV**

Forwards. Backwards. Forwards. Backwards. Forwards. Backwards.  
The sickle in my hand moves with my arm as I cut the grain in the wheat fields. All of my senses have gone numb with boredom, moving continuously and mechanically. My slices never change. They never vary. The sickle makes the same slicing sound each time I swing it into the wheat. Even the wheat itself is identical, the long stalks falling down as if in slow motion, the heads of the wheat waving about as it topples to the ground. The golden head of the plant sprouts whiskers of its own, as long as cat's whiskers, which jostle as the wheat falls. Forwards. Backwards. Forwards. Backwards. It seems like time is a drawn out second, and no matter how many slices my arm makes, nothing happens. Just the fall of more wheat; brothers in arms that contrast with the darkness of the earth they were raised from. At this moment in time, this is my only purpose. Since I was eleven, I have worked in this very field. I've cut. I've collected. I've replanted. And then I've repeated the cycle again, hoping that I don't get reaped for the Hunger Games. I haven't been reaped yet.

We are called back in, for the day's work finishes early. I leave my sickle with the Peacekeepers, and I file my way out of the field and into the District. As usual, my 7-year-old sister, Sarah, waits outside for me to come out. Sarah is always following me around. I'm not sure why, but it must be out of some kind of interest or admiration. I don't know. Maybe she'll grow out of it.

"Hi Sarah," I say.

"Hi!" she smiles.

That's basically how our conversation goes. It's not that I don't like her, it's just that I don't talk much. I tend to be quite the loner, but I'm loyal to what few friends I have. Well, that's what I've been told.

We make our way home, and walk in through the door.

"It's time to get ready," I tell Sarah with a smile, and she leaves me to go up to my room to get dressed for the reapings. My outfit has been laid out for me on my bed; my Dad's red dress shirt, his work jeans, and his work boots.

I get washed and dressed, pulling the red dress shirt over my scarred arms, and the jeans over my marked legs. The scars from years of hard work have been written onto my body, and they stand out like tattoos, forever present on my skin.

I hear the door shut downstairs, meaning that Mom and Dad must be home.

I'm fairly presentable, so I walk downstairs to meet Mom and Dad. Dad works as an operator at the mill, so he makes sure that everything runs smoothly. Mom works at the mills quality control, so that only the best grain goes to the Capitol.

"Hi Mom, Dad," I say.

"Hi Derek," Mom says, and she gives me a hug and a kiss. Dad shakes my hand, and is about to say something when Sarah bounds down the stairs. She leaps into Dad's arms, and Mom gives her a small hug.

Dad puts Sarah down, and turns to me.

"Good luck at the reapings, son," he says with an encouraging smile.

"Thanks Dad." I reply, and I return his smile before waving goodbye and leaving the house. I walk to the reapings alone and without my sister following me. Mom and Dad keep her back and let me go early so that I'm not late. They'll probably get changed and come down in a few minutes.

"Hey Derek,"

I jump, and my mind focuses on my surroundings once more. My friend, Josh Langsam, is standing next to me. Josh is my best friend, and we're pretty much brothers. He's sixteen; the same age as I am.

"Where were you in the field today?" I ask him. "I didn't see you. You're usually near me."

Josh makes a face.

"I overslept and I got in a little later than usual," he explains. "I was put on the other side of the field, and I couldn't find you. I was lucky that I wasn't late. Y'know how the Peacekeepers are with lateness."

I nod, understanding what he means. If you were late to your work on the fields, you were publicly whipped in the town square. Both Josh and I have never been whipped, and we're not planning on ending up in the town square just for being late. It looked excruciating, and I didn't want the experience.

I feel a sudden weight on my back, and someone latches their arms around my neck, and their legs around my waist. I stumble, but manage to stay upright.

"Hi!" someone says in my ear.

"Hey Alexis," Josh answers causally.

"Hi. How are you?" I say to the giggling girl on my back.

Alexis is a hyperactive, nature-loving girl who works with my Mom in the mill. Josh and I are used to Alexis' free spirited personality. She is a good friend of ours, although I have a crush on her. I don't know when I first felt it, but I know that I love almost everything about her. I just don't have the courage to ask her out, because I'm afraid that she'll turn me down.

My heart soars when she answers my question in a cheery tone.

"I'm feeling on top of the world!" she cries, and then she laughs and gets off of my back. "How about you?"

"I'm alright," I answer. "Just a little worried about the reapings,"

Josh smiles.

"Don't worry about it Derek. You'll be fine," he says.

"I know, I just get irrationally scared over the fact that I might get picked." I reply.

I've been worried about whether or not I'll get reaped for a long time. I'm scared of the slips of paper in that glass bowl, because any one of them could be a one-way ticket to my death. Compounding my worries, if Josh got reaped, I know that I'd have to volunteer. How else would he be able to support his family? He has two brothers, a sister, his parents and himself to feed, whereas I only have four in my family. That increases my chances of being reaped by almost double, because I know that I'd have to step in for my friend.

We all line up for the reapings, one by one, and I start to shake uncontrollably. I can't help it, I just get really scared when it comes to these things. In a few minutes, my life could be thrown away. I could lose everything in just an hour. I could be dead within a couple of weeks.

Alexis and Josh try to calm me down, but their efforts don't change how I feel. By the time I arrive at the desk, I am told by Josh that my face is deathly pale.

The Peacekeeper at the desk silently pricks my finger, and I catch my reflection in their mask. This Peacekeeper is still wearing their mask for some reason, which I take to be unusual. But it gives me five seconds to take a look at myself.

I tower over the seated Peacekeeper, seen as I'm six foot two. My green eyes stare back at me in fear of what the next few minutes of my life could bring. My dark brown hair flutters nervously in the breeze that flies through the town square.

I'm not ready for this. But have I ever been ready? Have I ever been prepared for the reapings?

I walk to the sixteen year old section with Josh, nodding and waving to Alexis as she walks off to her section. The escort this year is the same as usual; a cheerful woman dressed up in a massive bear suit. I wait until she picks the name from the glass bowl, hoping that it is not me who is about to be reaped. But, isn't everyone thinking that? Doesn't everyone want to be safe from the wrath of the Capitol?

"Adelaide Plum!" the woman in the bear suit cries, her voice muffled. The woman up on stage wrestles with the microphone due to the constricting suit that she is wearing. A couple of people snigger.

"Fuck this," the woman mutters, and she rips of the bulbous head of the bear, and chucks it off stage.

"That's better," she smiles. "Now, where is Adelaide?"

A sobbing girl walks up to the front, and goes up to the stage. She looks young, and I recognise her from somewhere…Oh yes! She's the Mayor's daughter. I look over to him, seeing his face drain of colour as he watches his distressed daughter cry out her despair in front of the whole of Panem.

The mascot walks over to the boy's reaping bowl and takes out a slip. She drops the slip, and swears so loudly, that I see some of the parents cover their children's ears.

The woman clears her throat and talks into the microphone sweetly and clearly, acting as if nothing had happened.

"Josh Langsam!"

Josh and I look at each other in horror. Josh has been picked. He starts to move out into the aisle, but I pull him back. There's no way he's going into that arena.

"I volunteer!" I call, and I walk up to the stage, giving the escort my name.

Josh stares at me. Alexis stares at me. My parents stare at me. Even Sarah has a scared look on her face; as if the stage is the first step I'll be taking to my deathbed. Then I realise that I _am_ taking a step towards my deathbed. The chances of my return are slim. What have I done? I may have saved my friend from a horrible fate, but if I don't come home, many people's lives will still be torn apart. How am I supposed to die when I'm meant to be here, safe and warm at home? Why do I need to die when my family needs the money I earn so much?

It looks like I'm going to have to try and win.

* * *

**Adelaide "Addie" Plum, District Nine Female POV**

I prance around the kitchen, humming away senselessly. The reapings are today, but I don't need to worry, because I won't get picked. My name is only in there once, so there's practically no chance that I'll get picked!

Mom is washing the dishes, swaying to my beautiful voice, as I sing and hum random songs. Dad left early this morning to go to the reapings, but I'll be seeing him later, and we can have some marshmallows around the fire. My Dad is the Mayor of District Nine, and marshmallows are a luxury that we can afford. Although…we only ever have them after the reapings. I've never asked Dad why.

Mom finishes washing as I twirl about, and she quickly prepares lunch. She gets a few slices of bread, and she makes sandwiches. She then proceeds to cut the sandwich in half. I frown.

"Mooooom," I say.

"What is it dear?" Mom asks me kindly.

"Why do we cut the sandwiches in half?" I ask. It's a strange idea to me.

"That's because it makes the sandwiches easier to eat, dear." Mom smiles, and she turns back to wipe down the side. She suddenly sneezes, shutting her eyes tight. Her short blonde hair jerks forward and rises again as her head comes back up.

I think hard.

"Mooooom," I say again.

"Yes honey?"

"Why do we shut our eyes when we sneeze?" I ask.

"I don't know, dear," replies Mom, frowning as she tries to answer my question.

"Would our eyes pop out if we didn't?"

"I don't know that either,"

"Ew! I don't want to think about it!" I cry, and I hop off of my seat, my mouth full of sandwich. I grab a glass of milk and I drink it quickly, gulping down the cold liquid with loud satisfied sounds.

"I'm gonna go and get ready Mom," I say.

"For what?" she asks. "Oh yes, the reapings. OK dear, make sure that you wear a pretty dress."

"Ohhh-Kay!" I squeal, and I run up the stairs with my half eaten sandwich still in my hand. I put it on the windowsill, and dance over to my wardrobe, singing.

"_It's the reapings today! It's the reapings today! I'm gonna be safe! No tiiiiiiiiiiiime to delay!" _I sing, and the birds outside my window join in with me for a little bit.

I spend half an hour taking apart my wardrobe, before I manage to find a dress that's good enough. Velvet, no…Satin, no…Aha! Here we are!

I slip on a pink sparkly dress. It looks pretty and very nice on me. Now I need to make sure that I look pretty as well. I go over to the mirror, and I brush my short blonde curls, letting them frame my pale face. My blue eyes look at my hands as I make myself perfect.

"Done!" I announce to nobody in particular, and I run down the stairs to show Mom.

"You look so pretty!" she coos. "Are you ready, dear?"

"Yep!" I tell her. I can't wait until marshmallows. "I'm just hungry!"

Mom smiles, and gets a pot of blueberries out of the cupboard.

"Have these." she says, and I follow her out of the door of our amazing house. We're not far from the town square, but Mom makes sure that we always visit my best friend in the Victors Village first. Her name is Calina Verez. She's the daughter of the woman who won the Hunger Games a while back. I finish off the blueberries and hand the pot to Mom. She takes it from me.

Calina comes out of her house, and we run up to each other, squealing.

"Calina!" I yell. "How are you?"

"Addie!" she screams. "I love your dress!"

"You ready?" I ask her.

"Yeah!" she says enthusiastically.

We both start to dance and sing together; a rhyme that we've both used for ages to show that we're best friends.

"_I am the champion!_" she cries.

"_Oh no you're not!_" I reply.

"_Under, Over, Pepsi, Cola, One, Two, Three!_"we both join in together on the last part, and we do a handstand. We can't judge whose handstand is the best, so we call it a draw.

We get up and brush ourselves off, while my Mom and Calina's Mom talk about grown-up stuff. They walk down to the square and we follow them. Eventually, we get there, and we have to stand in this really long line to get our fingers pricked really hard.

"Why does it draw blood?" I ask the person in the white armoured suit, but I am only pushed along roughly, and told not to ask such a stupid question. I shrug and carry on.

Calina and I walk to the twelve-year-old section, and the escort comes up in a bear suit. A video plays but Carlina and me are singing and playing pat a cake all the way through it, so I don't hear anything about it. What's the point of learning about the Hunger Games if I won't get reaped?  
The woman in the bear suit says something rude and reaps the girl. It won't be me, so I'm alright.

"Adelaide Plum!"

My blood turns into ice at the woman's words. What? I've been reaped? The icy coldness seems to trickle into my muscles, willing them to move. The shock hits me so hard that I swear I might keel over from surprise and dread. I start to move up to the stage, crying and sobbing all the way. It's not fair! Why do I have to be sent to die? I'm the Mayor's daughter! I shouldn't be allowed to get reaped at all. Dad only looks at me with sadness as I stand there on the stage, but I can see barely anything through the fogginess in my eyes caused by my torrents of salty tears.

All of a sudden I'm very scared of what's going to happen to me. I could be dead in a little while…  
I don't think I will get any marshmallows from my Dad tonight.

* * *

**I am now a zombie...**

**I'm practically falling asleep on my laptop. Not a great combination. It makes me happier to say that there are no more annoying little girls for the next three chapters! Yay!**

**Please check out OceaneBreeze13's SYOT called "Standing Together – The 175th Hunger Games"; it has a very interesting Quell twist, and is certainly worth a look!**

**I hope that you're all having a wonderful day/night! I will update as soon as possible. Remember to Ask Any Questions that you want to know about me (not too personal) and I will answer them in my next update.**

**Bye for now,**

**~E.E. **


	11. Chapter 11

**Hi! How is everyone? I had my Leavers Day, so I don't have school until I go to university now XD**

**I do however; have exams in four weeks time. AAAAAH! This will decide the whole course of my future. What am I doing on here? Well, a guy has to make some kind of free time to keep his sanity…**

**Anyway, thank you to BamItsTyler for giving me a question! **

**BamItsTyler: What annoys you most about this fandom? **

**ElementalEvolution: Well, there are quite a few things! Firstly, I hate it when people write stories and don't finish them. They really annoy me! I mean, I follow a story, and then they just leave me hanging? No! Get your ass back here and finish it! Or at least update it once a month, like I do on my Harry Potter story. Secondly, SYOT's. Some SYOT's are very well written and get almost no attention! Why are people so ignorant? Luckily for me, I have quite a lot of attention when it comes to my SYOT (THANK YOU!), but other authors don't get many interested readers. I feel sorry for them, because frankly, it's rather unfair. **

**Thank you to thelastofdavid, BamItsTyler, 212degrees, EllipticDART, and WendyHamlet for reviewing! I am grateful for your reviews as usual :)**

**Thank you to OceaneBreeze13 and 10-Ton-Turner for the District Ten tributes XD**

**Disclaimer: I don't own the Hunger Games in any way, shape or form. I only own the arena and my ridiculously long authors note.**

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**Kip Lightcomb, District Ten Male POV**

I can see the morning light through my eyelids. I'm wrapped up in my thin duvet, knowing that I've woken up late. I have slept in on a reaping day.

It's the reapings today. The realisation hits me hard as I realise that I should be ready for the reapings by now.

I scramble out of bed by kicking off the duvet, and I hurry over to my wardrobe. I hunt around for some clothes, eventually finding a grey polo shirt, and grey dress pants, which look good enough to go to the reapings in. Putting on the polo shirt takes some time, and I have to use my left arm to guide my right through it. My right arm has a muscle deficiency and I've had it since birth. My hand is all folded together, like a rolled up carpet that has been squashed. My tanned skin is creased and wrinkled, hanging off of my arm in a sickening manner. The arm itself has a shrivelled appearance, almost as if my arm is a wilting plant.

I walk down the stairs and into the kitchen for lunch. I hate waking up late, because that means I might be late to the reapings. And if the Peacekeepers denounce our family as absent, then we'll get whipped for it.

My eighteen-year-old sisters, Colby and Calista, are in the kitchen. They're twins, and they're good sisters to me. The only thing I find annoying is that they continuously sympathise with me because I am limited to the things I do due to my useless right arm.

"Don't worry! I'll cut up some bread for you," Colby says when she sees my hand reach for the loaf.

"I'll grab the knife," Calista announces, and she walks to get it. I roll my eyes. It is nice of them to do these things for me, and I understand that they mean well, but I wish that I could do something by myself for once, instead of getting help. I got rid of the bullies on my own, so why can't I handle cutting a piece of bread?

I remember when I got bullied and laughed at because of my shrivelled arm. That was until I had had enough with the bullies, and I challenged them to a stone- throwing contest. They set up the targets; small squares of left over wood that hung on the trees in the school grounds. We all threw our stones. Although I only hit one of the targets, I hit it in the middle. Exactly in the middle. People were impressed with me, and they didn't bully me after that. Since then, I have trained myself to improve my aim as much as I can. I still don't have friends, but that's my choice. I prefer to be alone, where I can hear myself think.

Colby and Calista seem to be much happier today, and they were rushing around, doing each other's hair and dresses to make themselves look better for their final reapings. After this year, they are free. They will have escaped from the wrath of the Capitol. They will be no longer eligible to play the worst game imaginable: The Hunger Games. But I was still at risk for two more years after this one. I was hoping that I wasn't reaped. I was in there exactly fifteen times. My chances were a lot smaller than the eighteen year olds that had signed up for tesserae to feed their families, but I still had a chance of being picked. Just because I had less slips in there, it didn't mean that I had no chance of getting reaped. I could very easily be reaped. Anyone could be. No matter how small the chance is, anyone can get reaped. There is no point in wishing that you're not going to get reaped, because _someone _has to get picked, and it could easily be you.

The probability of Colby or Calista getting reaped is higher than mine, but only by thirteen slips each. They can easily get reaped too. I don't think I would know how sad Colby and Calista would be if one of them were to be reaped. My sisters were eachother's best friends, they would be heartbroken if one of them was sent to the Hunger Games, let alone how they distraught they would be if one of them were to die in the Games.

I am about to leave, when Mom and Dad get back from work.

"Now, now Kelpie, they'll be fine," Dad tells Mom as he walks in through the door.

My Mom nods at him, and then hugs each of us in turn, holding me for slightly longer than the others. I know that she feels guilty for the fact that she couldn't look after me in the past. She has very little time seen as she works so many hours. If my calculations are correct, then she spends her life working for at least eighty four hours a week, which is over three days of the week working if she was to work for twenty four hours without stopping for food, toilet breaks, or sleep.

The black bags under her eyes, tell me that she didn't get much sleep last night. She never does on the day before the reapings, because she's so worried about one of us getting reaped.

Dad comes into the house, and gives the girls a kiss. He turns to me, and shakes the lump of flesh on my right arm. He doesn't wince or cringe. His face is serious and determined. I like this part of Dad. He doesn't judge me on my disability.

"You can do this Kip," he tells me. "You won't get reaped today, I know it. You can get through this year like you've done so since your first reaping. After this year, it's only two years left for you, and then your future will be there for the taking. Remember m'boy, you can do anything you want."

I nod, and my Dad smiles, his blue eyes twinkling with pride, and his blond hair shining like gold.

Most of our family look the same. We all have hair that mimic rays of sunlight, and we all have the same tanned skin. The only difference between us, is that Dad, Colby and Calista have blue eyes, and Mom and I have brown eyes. We're strikingly similar.

It's probably because the dominant gene that Mom and Dad passed down to us meant that we were to have fair hair. As for the eyes, the recessive gene became dominant, meaning that Colby and Calista have blue eyes instead of brown. Mom's brown eye gene remained dominant, and it was passed down to me.

Colby, Calista and I leave the house and bid Mom and Dad farewell.

"Gunner, I hope they'll be alright…" I hear my Mom say behind me.

"Don't worry Kelpie, they will be." Dad replies, and they shut the door behind them. The three of us walk to the reapings, but I stay far behind the girls, because I need some peace and quiet to prepare myself for the reapings. I calculate that my chances of being reaped, and they are so close to zero that I should be safe. But the chance of me being chosen is still present, hounding me with every step I take.

I sign in, waiting patiently for the Peacekeeper to prick my finger before I can move on. I walk to the sixteen-year-old section, and I wait inside the roped area. I'm relieved I'm not late, and judging by the clock on the large white screen of canvas next to the stage, we have exactly thirty four seconds until the reapings are scheduled to start. I wait for those thirty four seconds, before our escort comes up. She's called Dina Sykes, and she can't help but to talk in continuous rhyme, because she thinks it's glamourous and fashionable. I'm surprised she's not tired of it after three years of rhyming.

"The reapings are fun, so let's get this done!" she trills, rhyming as usual.

The Treaty of Treason is played, and I watch the graphics with awe. If I remember correctly, a machine called a 'projector' is used to play the film to us. I've always been baffled at how the Capitol can create enough technology to make things like this.

Once that is over and done with, Dina skips over to the girls reaping ball, and her golden wig slides slightly to the side. She picks out a slip and opens it, straightening her wig at the same time.

"Oops! My wig is loose, the girl this year is Skyla Truce!"

A moody, brooding girl stalks up to the stage, and huffs as she stomps up the steps, staring coldly at the camera. Nice angle. She seems uncaring and confident. That will definitely get her sponsors.

Dina trots over to the boys reaping ball, and she takes a slip from the bowl. Everyone around me takes a collective breath as she reads out the name on the slip, trying to rhyme it the best she can.

"I feel sorry for the ones at home, the boy today is Kip Lightcomb!"

I internally cringe at the rhyme, but I've still been reaped. I solemnly walk up to the stage, already calculating my chances of winning. It's one in twenty-four without intervening variables such as mutts and the availability of water.

I glance over at Skyla, and she glares back at me defensively. I wasn't planning on teaming up with anyone in the Hunger Games. As I said before, I'd rather have my peace and quiet, plus, my allies would definitely ask about my arm, and I don't want to be judged on my physical appearance.

I know that I need to win to show my Dad that I can do anything, just like he told me I could. I can't fail them. Just because I have one arm, it does not mean that I can't win. So I'm going show them all by winning.

* * *

**Skyla Truce, District Ten Female POV**

So, here I am, walking by myself to the reapings. It's not great to go alone, but I'm going to have to put up with it if I want to be on time.

It's not my fault if my family are going to be late.

I woke up this morning, feeling perfectly normal, until along came the reapings and rained on my parade. My older brother Bernie was swaggering around the house and being a complete ass. He's seventeen, and next year, and it will be his last reaping. Then he'll be exempt from them, the lucky bastard. He's a selfish prick if I can put it nicely. I hate it when his blue eyes flash cheekily when he torments me. And then he doesn't get in trouble for annoying me. And who does? I do.

I am the second oldest sibling in the house. I'm sixteen years old, but my name is in there quite a few times, because I had to take out tesserae for our family. Bernie had to do it too, but he's trained for the Hunger Games with his friends, so he tells me. I haven't trained, but I can pack a decent punch. My Dad once taught me how to punch someone properly, so I can hold my own in a fight. However, I doubt that a fist could do much in a fight when you're up against a career with a hefty sword.

And then my Mom would swoop in, shrieking like a hag and telling me to do the dishes, or to go out and gather berries from the bushes that grow wild near our house. It's like I'm a slave here, and I hate it. But anything is better than the Hunger Games, so I suck it up. It's a hard life here, but I have to deal with it, or I'll face horrible consequences. Nonetheless, my life sucks so much that I wouldn't be surprised if I was dragged off to fight to the death in an arena.

Our family however, doesn't stop there. I'm not your typical victimised sister that has to do everything for my family. I do much more than that, because there are two younger siblings in the house.

Adam is twelve, and it's his first reaping. I was going to help him get through it, but Mom and Dad yelled at me for forgetting to do the dishes this morning, so I stomped out. I'm probably going to have to deal with my punishment later, but I doubt it will be much more than a long list of chores, so I don't need to dwell on it too much.

Becky is the youngest member of our family, and she's only four years old. She doesn't really understand why there is the 'Hunger Games' and what the 'reapings' are, but she helps me do my chores whenever she can, running on chubby legs to find me things like flowers or pretty looking stones at the side of the road. I rarely smile, but when I do, it's usually because Becky has brought a smile onto my face.

I guess you could say that we're a typical family from District Ten; my Dad works with the livestock all day, and my Mom records the number of animals slaughtered by the District. She controls how much meat is sent to the Capitol, but it doesn't pay very much, because she only works about an hour every day. For the rest of it, she sits down on her fat butt, and watches the world go by. Ever since her friend died when she was younger, she's been bitter towards everyone. I'm surprised Dad married her to be honest.

I guess she takes it out on me, because I am about the same age her friend was when she was sent in.

I pass Hannah's house, but I know that I'll see her at the reapings, because she's always early to them, purely out of nervousness. She's sixteen, like I am, and she walks around on her tiptoes due to a problem with the muscles in her legs. I've heard that there are a few people about my age with muscle deficiencies in our District. I heard that there was some kind of chemical meant for the animals, which accidentally got in the District's food supply, meaning that some parents had deformed babies. I know a girl that only has half a face, and there's a boy in my year with a shrivelled arm. They all used to get laughed at, but we're all more mature now, and we don't bother laughing at each other any more. That doesn't stop the younger kids laughing though. Whenever they laugh at Hannah, I stalk up to them with my fists out, and they scatter.

I walk past a closed shop window, and I see my furious face reflected back at me. My dark brown hair is held up in a ponytail, and the strands of it fly everywhere like a writhing pit of snakes. My brown eyes look as if they could crush you and break every bone in your body with just with one stare. My olive skin makes way for my slightly bared teeth, which are gnashed together. Mom forced me into a purple t-shirt and a black skirt, but with the wind today, I know that she made me wear it in the hopes that it would blow up and cause me embarrassment. What a cow.

I sign in, and walk swiftly to the sixteen-year-old section, pushing down my skirt as it threatens to rise up. I can't see Hannah anywhere, so I'm guessing that she's on the other side of the section. I'll have to meet her afterwards.

The annoying escort bounces around like an idiot on stage, and when she calls my name, I immediately scowl. I can't afford to look like a weakling. Truthfully, I'm not surprised that I have been reaped this year. Discounting Hannah and Becky, not many people show me much kindness, so I'm not surprised that my day had to get worse by getting reaped. If anything it's gotten better, because I won't have to do any chores tonight.

I am going to have to be very careful when I get to the Capitol. With my lack of knowledge, I'm going to need someone to teach me some fighting skill, because frankly, I'm shit at it.

Right then. Let's do this, and show my witch of a Mother that I'm so much better than she is.

* * *

**I am done! I liked these two tributes, what do you think? **

**Do you think that Kip's disability will hinder his efforts to survive in the arena? Or do you think he'll get sponsors through sympathy from the Capitolites? And Skyla seems like she has a hard life. Do you think she'll be prepared for the emotional roller-coaster ahead of her? Do you think that she can find an ally to help her to win, or do you reckon that she'll go solo?**

**Please review! It helps me understand where I'm going right/wrong, and plus, it helps keep the tributes that you want alive. **

**Don't forget to ****Ask the Author ****aka. Me about anything. Just ask me a question, and I'll answer it (as long as it's not too personal). Keep them rolling in!**

**I'm hoping to update as soon as possible, seen as I'm going to my Dad's next week, and I won't get much of a chance to write. I might get out another chapter before then, but if not, I will see you in a couple of weeks. I wish you well, and have a great day/night!**

**Bye for now my wonderful readers.  
~E.E.**


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